


Accord

by mydwynter



Series: Memoranda of Understanding [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Affection, Alcohol, Banter, Case Fic, Companionable Snark, Confessions, Desire, Emotions, Intimacy, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Novel, Romance, Snark, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He had just been learning the shape of his life after divorce when this relationship with Mycroft came along. And now a feeling of change hung about the corners of his mind like a spectre, unwilling or unable to let him go, and the sand under his feet always seemed to be shifting, shifting. Greg needed something solid to lean on.</em>
</p><p>They'd fought their battles, and reached a measure of peace. But it was still going to take a little time to bring everything into accord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks go to my betas Mazarin221B and BakerStMel. They are fantastic, and I am so thankful for their input and support.

Greg's day had already fallen away from him, and he'd only been at Mycroft's for five minutes. Slumped boneless, he rolled his head back and forth on the back of the sofa to feel the hardwood underneath the wide-woven upholstery. Even above the wood smoke from the fireplace, he smelled polish and dust and old things.

He was beginning to find that comforting.

"And your response?" Mycroft said.

"I didn't know what to say." Greg sipped his tea. It was from an expensive tea cup from an expensive saucer on an expensive side table. Much as he'd finally started to like the sitting room, there were things about dating Mycroft he'd still have to get used to. But it was early days yet. "I was glad to get next weekend off for Sharon's visit, of course I was, but I didn't know about the rest. I told him I like my job as is. If I went for Chief Inspector, I wouldn't get my hands dirty as much, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"I'd like to point out that you're already in a leadership position."

"But I get to focus on cases, not management. I want to hold on as long as I can."

"Well. I think that's admirable."

Greg blinked. "Really? Most people think it's asinine."

"Most people let desire for money and prestige cloud their vision. You, on the other hand, have other priorities. It's always been very clear to me."

"I feel like that's a backhanded compliment, but I can't put my finger on why." Greg spun sideways and gently placed his feet in Mycroft's lap.

Surprised, after a moment Mycroft set his cup aside and rested his hands on his ankles. The warmth was grounding. "It's intended to be a _whole-hearted_ compliment."

"Is it."

"Gregory, how often do you think I encounter people who aren't driven solely by ambition?"

Greg considered. "Good point."

"The fact I'm intending to get across is this: you have an air of tremendous security with yourself and your position, and that security is very attractive."

The compliment hung in the air, making Greg a little squirmy. "How attractive?" Greg said, changing the subject. He shifted his foot to prod Mycroft's cock through his fine trousers, and delighted in his quiet sniff of reaction.

"Are you angling for a demonstration?"

"Usually." Greg's heart was already beginning to speed in anticipation. He moved his foot in small circles, and felt the flesh under his arch twitch.

Mycroft hummed and shifted his hips. "That could be arranged."

"I was hoping so."

For a minute or so, the room was quiet but for the sound of Mycroft's breath deepening as Greg roused him. Greg was rifling through ideas which way this could go when Mycroft lifted his feet to the floor.

"Stand," he instructed evenly. "I'm going to make you come down my throat."

Greg's cock, already beginning to be interested in the proceedings, leapt. Even after all this time, when Mycroft detailed in plain English any details of what they got up to sexually, it made Greg flush. Perhaps it was the manner in which he spoke it, or something about that particular voice pronouncing those particular words in such smooth, rolling tones, but whenever Mycroft said anything remotely salacious it made Greg want to hide in a hole like an embarrassed teenager with an erection. If Mycroft ever started fully exploring the world of dirty talk, Greg didn’t know what he would do: laugh himself out of the room, or come so hard he’d feel it the next day.

He knew it was probably the latter.

Trying to keep his limbs steady, he stood in front of Mycroft. Then he met his gaze.

The desire in it made the world fall away. He watched, mouth dry, as Mycroft's eyes fluttered closed and he dove in, rubbing his face on the placket of Greg's trousers, nipping at the fabric, huffing hot breath, worshipping. Greg strained harder at the sight.

"Jesus," he whispered. He rested his hands on Mycroft's head and felt him moan. Mycroft let down Greg's zip, and Greg gave over to the sensation: pressure and wet heat, slipping and suction.

He was never going to get used to this. Ever. A mouth that praised detachment, that spoke state secrets to spies and diplomacy to queens, a voice that dripped so often with condescension, was currently sucking him off. Was currently sucking him off with _tremendous_ enthusiasm, if the noises he was making were any indication.

The blow job went on, and on. Greg floated in a timeless sea of pleasure, revelling in Mycroft's greed, buffeted by the desire lit by the pornographic noise and the soft-sharp-hot carnality. When Mycroft licked a sloppy line between his testicles, separating them, wetting them, it was too much. He curled his fingers into Mycroft's hair and whimpered. Then he remembered himself and jammed his hands into his armpits.

Mycroft reached up and tugged on his elbow.

_Oh._

"Yes?"

Mycroft moaned and sucked harder, and so Greg took that for an answer.

With his fingers twisted in Mycroft's hair, Greg had something to push against. He rocked forward to meet Mycroft's mouth, shoving in, matching him. "Oh, christ yes. Oh christ yes. Take it. Take it. Oh god, this is good. Oh god yes. Mycroft…you're just… Mycroft…please…please…please… Oh god, I…" He watched Mycroft's mouth stretch red and wet around his cock, and saw him reach toward his lap for a moment then deliberately place his hand on his knee. Greg sucked in a breath. Desire raged. "Oh, god yes. Do it."

Mycroft met his eyes. He shifted in his seat.

" _Do it,_ " Greg murmured.

In five seconds Mycroft had his own cock in his hand and was sucking Greg down again, moaning, and Greg's head snapped back with the sudden blaze of pleasure. "Oh, fuck yes, come. Ohhh, christ I want to come. I want to come down your throat." Mycroft moaned, and Greg felt his hand move faster. Greg flexed his arse so his cock bumped Mycroft's soft palate. "You want to taste me, don't you. I know you like how I taste. It makes you so hard."

Mycroft started jerking, completely scattering the rhythm of the blow job, but seeing the breakdown of control only made Gregory's arousal flare hotter.

"You love it. I bet you can taste me already. Come on, harder. Harder. Harder." Mycroft seemed to have completely lost track of anything but his own pleasure. His mouth had completely fallen open and he was panting, twitching, so very, very close. Greg took his own cock in hand and started jacking himself while he watched.

When Mycroft used both hands on himself, Greg knew it was about to kick off. Greg pulled furiously, not for a moment taking his eyes from Mycroft as he lifted his hips a few inches off the sofa, slowed his hand, and froze. His groan filled the sitting room and he dropped over the other side, coming onto his hands and across Greg's trousers rucked up on the floor, with each breath letting out a heartbreaking whimper.

"Yesss…" Greg hissed. He watched Mycroft clasp himself with both hands and twitch with aftershocks, his eyes closed, floating. Not for the first time, Greg felt a stab of pride that he got to witness this man, with his forbearance and his self-control, give himself entirely over to pleasure.

And then, Mycroft opened his eyes.

The softness in them was heartbreaking. He gazed up at Greg like a devotee, like a supplicant, and Greg's heart flipped. Greg moved his hand faster and stared back, the pleasure filling up behind his eyes like warm water, like a rising tide of arousal. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he needed to breathe, but something about the expression on Mycroft's face made that impossible. Greg's chest ached. His throat was tight. When he moaned, it sounded like pain instead of pleasure.

All of Greg's muscles drew up, and he crested mindless with tension before his orgasm hit in a sudden, full-body drop. It struck half a moment before he felt the first speeding pulse of ejaculation, hot and wet and perfect, and he rocked forward to stripe Mycroft's cheek and jaw. It wrung him dry, jerking through his thigh muscles, pulsing over and over in ever-decreasing strength like the ripples at the edge of a pond. Greg twitched and dripped the last of it onto Mycroft's tongue.

When it finally ended, he looked down to see the evidence of his pleasure all over Mycroft's face—filthy, glistening—and reached down to smear his hand across his cheek.

In a rush of movement Mycroft stood and swooped in for a kiss. It was slickness and semen, heat and desire, and Greg grabbed his arse with both hands to keep his knees from buckling. But just as forcefully as it began the kiss slid sideways into a slow, aching sort of tenderness, and Greg moaned into his mouth and held on as tightly as he dared.

For several timeless minutes, they held each other in the middle of the sitting room, half dressed, clutching, panting, inextricable. Greg squeezed his eyes shut. His heart thundered.

" _Gregory_ ," Mycroft said, and he gripped on tighter. He buried his face against his neck. Their skin slipped.

Greg reeled and tried to breathe. The post-orgasm hormones were doing a number on him; everything felt painful and too hot, but he couldn't make himself pull away. Mycroft made a quiet noise of distress and started swaying back and forth, shifting Greg's weight with him. Greg breathed him in, his sweat and his faded cologne. The affection he felt was tender as a new bruise.

He lost track of time as they leaned on each other, but eventually his system cleared, and so did his head. Greg stepped back. His heart still pounded as he stood there staring into Mycroft's eyes, with too-empty hands and an ache to go on holding him. Any release that had come from the orgasm was wiped away by his longing.

"Well. Thanks." He didn't know what else to say.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Thank _you_."

"I…" Greg swallowed down the remaining press of emotion. "You'll…you'll need to wash your face."

"I will." After a moment for breath, Mycroft turned to the door.

"Sorry I got a little…" He gestured at his face. "…On you."

Mycroft stopped and turned. His expression was deadly serious. "Don't you _ever_ apologise for that."

Greg stomach fluttered. "Oh."

He stared at Greg for another moment. It looked as if he was going to say something else, but instead he left the room in silence. Greg scrubbed at the semen on his trousers with his pants, balled them up into a pocket, and put his trousers back on without them. Then he threw himself down onto the settee and exhaled slowly.

By the time Mycroft had come back, settled down, and lifted Greg's feet onto his lap again, Greg had finally got ahold of himself. Mycroft squeezed his ankles.

"Well."

"Well."

"This sofa is terrible,” Greg said, scrambling for a new subject, and the ridge of furniture frame which was currently jammed against the back of his skull seemed as good a topic as any.

"This sofa, as you're calling it, is a settee and is three hundred years old."

"You're shitting me."

Mycroft chuckled mildly. "I am not."

"How old is your bed?"

"A mere one hundred. It has the bones of youth."

"That explains why we don't get naked here. The bed's harder to break."

"Yes, _that's_ the reason we don't regularly have sex on a three-hundred-year-old settee."

"I hope we didn't get anything on it."

"We didn't. Though the consequences would have… Well. I suspect it would have been worth it even if we had."

Greg cast an eye at the fabric and snorted. "I'm not sure that's true."

"Stop fretting."

"I'm not."

Mycroft examined him sidelong. Greg let him. After a moment, his eyebrows raised. "No, you're not. You're relaxed."

"I am."

"Good," he said, gently pleased.

"Coming here is always a good idea."

Mycroft reached out and took a sip of his stone-cold tea. "Is that meant to be a pun?"

It took a moment. Then Greg snorted. "Accidental." He decided no longer being thirsty was more important than the temperature of the tea, and half sat up for a drink. 

"I would hope so. I like to think I'm more to you than an orgasm machine."

His timing was impeccable. Greg nearly sprayed all over the coffee table, and had to set down the cup so he didn't spill while he choked. _Orgasm machine._ Jesus. He coughed and laughed at the same time. "You're a menace."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Well, you're a professional authority on menaces, so I'll defer."

Leaning back against the arm of the settee, Greg considered him in profile while he wiped his mouth. He could see Mycroft trying to hide a smile behind his teacup, and so he pressed his heels down on his thigh: a moment of pressure meant to function as affection. "More than a machine."

"I'm glad to hear it."

As Mycroft drank more of his tea, Greg smiled to himself. He listened to the crackle of the fire in the grate and luxuriated in the calm that settled round them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Abstractly Greg had known he belonged to a club, though apart from that he knew nothing about it._
> 
> _"It's comfortable, the food is excellent, and if you agree to lunch I will arrange for a private room. It will all be very quiet. Peaceful."_
> 
> _"Er. Sure." Greg swallowed, realising that it actually sounded like a splendid idea. It would make a nice break in his day, and might soothe the quiet irritation already skittering under his skin._
> 
> The status quo is shifting, shifting, like sand under his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks go to Mazarin221B, BakerStMel, and Wearitcounts, who pushed and prodded and helped me sculpt this chapter into the best version it could be.

Just as he was getting in the next morning, Greg's plans for a restful day in his office disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Body of a male, mid-forties, up at the university. A bit gruesome, sir. Head's nearly off."

Terrific.

Sally told him the address. Greg peered at the clock on the wall and blinked. "What the hell time did you get there?"

"Half-past six."

"Jesus. Who found him so early?"

"Student. A runner. Who's over here having a quiet breakdown. Still."

Delightful. "I'll get there as soon as I can."

“Traffic shouldn't be too bad."

"Yeah, okay." Which was a bald-faced lie; it was still sodding rush hour. Greg rang off and spun round on his heel to exit the building. Goodbye coffee, goodbye danish, goodbye comfortable chair, goodbye "The Specials" playing quietly on the radio, goodbye YouTube.

Hello, murder.

* * *

The scrawny guy had a scrawnier grey ponytail, and with the hatchet job someone had taken to his neck the blood loss had left his skin looking just as grey as his hair. When Greg arrived at the crime scene, the place was still crawling with SOCO.

"This vic is a Vince," said Catherine, the crime scene manager on this particular case. She smirked at her own joke as she snapped off her gloves and adjusted the way her overalls sat on her shoulders. "Vincent Hemingway, aged 45. The wound goes nearly through his neck." She pointed to a spot on her own. "Cause of death is probably obvious. They'll have confirmation at the post-mortem. Defensive wounds on his forearms, but they're beneath the scratches from the bush, so that should tell you something. Time of death somewhere in the last few hours, but if I'm right, and I usually am, he was killed just before the body was called in."

Greg hoped they'd get more to go on when they examined the contents of the guy's pockets, because he was interested to find out why Hemingway had been cowering in a thorn bush when he was attacked, and why he was wearing a leather work apron and gloves.

"Metal worker, seems like," said Donovan, leaning over the body at Greg's side.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled.

Greg startled and stood to find both him and John leaning over the body with them. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock lifted up the wisps of hair at Hemingway's temple for a moment, then let them fall again. "The indentations on his cheeks are from protective eyewear. The fact they haven't yet faded means he'd been wearing them until close to when he was killed, but blood spatter indicates he'd removed them, not the killer."

"We can handle this. Go home."

"He's bored," said John.

"We're not here to entertain you, Sherlock."

"If you were, I'd demand my money back." Sherlock examined the guy's nail beds and the ornate copper bracelets on his wrists. "This is too easy."

"Which is why we don't need you here."

Sherlock ignored him. "You can see from his hands and his bracelets that he's a jeweller. Stubs and receipts in his pockets say he recently worked a small Christmas festival, but also that he supplements it with a line of custom commission work. He's also recently been using non-ferrous metals, which is what brought him to the university. I wouldn't be surprised if his death was brought about by his ego."

"Talking of egos," said Donovan, while Greg blinked at Sherlock.

"How could you possibly know about the ego?" Greg said.

Sherlock huffed out the sort of breath that meant he was particularly pleased with himself. "All goldsmiths have massive egos. It's a distinctive quality of the breed."

Greg didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. "So he was working with…gold?"

"Perhaps. Start in the arts classrooms. If anyone here is likely to recognise him, it's there."

"Not electronics departments? Gold in electronics."

This seemed to bring Sherlock up short. He frowned. Sherlock turned a particularly incisive and discomforting gaze Greg's way. "That was…actually a helpful observation."

"You don't have to sound so surprised." Greg's mobile rang. He ditched his gloves and fished it out of his pocket as he stalked farther away from the crime scene, and was genuinely pleased to see who it was.

"Mycroft."

"It seems the perpetrator of this particular crime wasn't aware he was on video," he said without preamble. "Foolish."

Greg blinked. "Well hello to you, too."

"Good morning."

"I thought you said you didn't stalk me with CCTV."

"Why would you assume it's you I'm stalking?"

Greg looked sidelong at Sherlock, who seemed to be crawling backward into the bush while lecturing John on the process of smelting metals, then snorted. "Ah."

"You might want to check the CCTV for that area," Mycroft said, with the trace of a smile in his voice.

"There's no coverage for this spot."

"Perhaps not, but there _is_ video for a man in a leather apron running quickly away from another wielding an axe. It's not airtight, but it as close as—"

"Yeah, I've got it. Do you know who either of them is?"

"Not at this time. Aren't you curious why I'm phoning?"

"It's not just for my charm and personality?"

"In a way. I was wondering if you'd be interested in having lunch with me."

"What, today?"

"Is that a problem?"

"What makes you think I'm going to eat today?"

"Gregory."

Greg smirked at the dryness in his voice. "Where?"

"At my club, if you don't mind."

"Your club?" Abstractly Greg had known he belonged to one, though apart from that he knew nothing about it.

"If you don't mind. It's comfortable, the food is excellent, and if you agree to lunch I will arrange for a private room. It will all be very quiet. Peaceful."

"Er. Sure." Greg swallowed, realising that actually sounded like a splendid idea. It would make a nice break in his day, and might soothe the quiet irritation already skittering under his skin. "Yes. Your club."

"Do I need to give you an out?"

Greg snorted. "I have a lot of experience telling you where to go, if necessary."

"You do."

"What are we having?"

"I'll surprise you."

"I bet. Text me the address?"

"Consider it done." He sounded warm and pleased.

Greg looked over at the body, where Sherlock and John appeared to be facing off against Donovan and Catherine. It looked as if there was about to be a gang fight. "I don't suppose you could convince your brother to go away?" he said. "We don't need him on this case."

"You know perfectly well how little control I have over my brother."

"Then what good are you?"

"I told you about the CCTV. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Thank you, Ladybird Book. You're _very_ helpful."

"I aim to please."

"Is that all you can tell me?"

"That is all you’re allowed to know."

"Wait, what's that supposed to mean? There's more?"

"I'll see you at lunch, Gregory. Noon."

"Sometimes you are a massive pain in my arse."

"And if I ever got the impression you minded, I might learn to refrain." Mycroft rang off, and Greg could feel his smirk down the line for several seconds afterward. Warmth spread through his chest as he wondered what the club was like and what sort of lunch Mycroft was planning.

His pleasant reverie was extinguished, however, when he realised Sherlock was scrolling through a mobile phone. A cheap non-smartphone. Greg didn't even think they made those anymore.

"What's this?" he asked the group at large.

"Confirmation," Sherlock said.

"Is that the vic's mobile?"

They all ignored him. Greg put on fresh gloves and held out his hand. "You're not here," he said to Sherlock. "Give it over." He waited for five seconds before jerking his hand out again. "Sherlock."

Sherlock dumped it on him and strolled away with his hands behind his back, as if possession of the mobile were nothing to him. "One text from an unknown number, telling him to be waiting at Euston Square at midnight. No other useful information. He never even activated the browser, such as it is. Clearly the man was a luddite. Or an idiot."

John scowled. "Listen, just because he's not—"

"Stop." Sherlock waved a hand. "You're not as miserable with a computer as you used to be. No need to take it so personally."

"Sherlock." If possible, John's scowl deepened. "I don't know whether you've—"

"Children?" Greg cut in over top of them. "Can we focus?"

"I thought we weren't here," said Sherlock, smugness dripping off him.

"If wishing made it so." Greg handed the phone to a beleaguered SOCO, and she took off scowling. "Listen, I don't want to wait to hear where that text originated from. Hemingway was working within running distance, so Donovan, look up where there are labs that he…"

There were sirens approaching. They got louder and louder, at which point they were joined by others. The sound shifted before it got to them however, turning off to Greg's right and fading slightly with the distance. Warning bells went off in Greg's head, joining the cacophony and driving him without a further word to the radio in his car. He needed to know what was going on.

* * *

Not too far from the crime scene, a house was busy burning to the ground—and with it, Greg suspected, would be going a large percentage of their evidence. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

"This is where Hemingway came from," Sherlock said.

"Oh, you think?" Greg snapped. He watched a group of firefighters wrestle a fresh bout of flame into submission.

"He doesn't live nearby, and his oyster card was hidden beneath some notes in his wallet, so likely he was driven here. If you find the cab companies which—"

"Sherlock, I'm trying to think."

"The body was still there, which means either our killer never planned to dispose of the body, or he was interrupted. The runner might be a very lucky man. The murderer could have seen—"

"Sherlock. Shut up." Greg stalked away, pulling out his mobile. Donovan followed.

"Why do you let him do that to your case?" she asked.

"Because. It's not like he ever takes the credit," Greg said. "It's good for our numbers."

"You can't tell me today's bitchiness isn't because you want to solve something on your own for once."

"Our evidence is going up in _flames_."

"I never thought I would describe Sherlock as clingy, but if the shoe fits…"

"I said it doesn't bother me," Greg lied. In point of fact, these days he was feeling more and more like Sherlock had come along and solved the crossword in pen before Greg had even picked up the paper. "Can you find the manager for me?"

She scowled. "Why do you always make me sound unreasonable for not wanting a deranged psychopath barging in to—"

"Donovan." He stopped the all-too-familiar screed in its tracks. "How many times have I asked you to leave it?"

"Sorry, sir." Her sigh was so heavy it was visible. "Manager. Right."

He looked at the time. "You know, I have a lunch…meeting. You can handle this?"

"You're doubting me now?"

"Of course not."

Even while she was surveying the chaos in front of them, Donovan still managed to roll her eyes. "Just go, sir. Meet away."

Irritated and impatient—and thankful for Donovan's reliability—Greg got the hell out of there before anyone else said another word.

* * *

The email Mycroft had sent not only contained the address of his club, but also detailed instructions where to park and where to walk, and was concluded by a very sturdy admonition not to speak until instructed otherwise. He'd assumed Mycroft had been kidding until he stepped into the preternatural quiet of The Diogenes Club, at which point it dawned on Greg that he'd been absolutely serious.

He was met at the door by Mycroft himself, who held a finger to his lips and ushered him inside. Greg noted a massive drawing room, panelled and wainscotted and dotted with single-serving tables. He had just enough time to note the deputy assistant commissioner reading at one of them before Mycroft beckoned him on.

They went up a grand half-spiral of oak stairs and down a corridor carpeted with plush rugs and decorated with tapestries, to a corner room with a heavy door. Mycroft caught his eye then pushed into the room.

It was a large space, thick with tradition and age. A broad, mullioned window slanted sunlight in a block of diamonds across the dark and wooden floor. All the upholstery was in various shades of claret and mahogany, and in the centre was a table glittering with silver dishes and crystal.

_Jesus christ._

Once the door closed, Mycroft stood in front of it and looked Greg over from head to toe as if he hadn't seen him just the day before. Shut inside, the room seemed even more still. He couldn't even hear traffic noise. "Hello," he said.

"Hi." Greg stepped in to better catch the scent of Mycroft's aftershave. His spine loosened immediately. "How are you?"

Instead of answering, Mycroft pressed a lingering kiss to Greg's mouth. Then another. Something about it—its fervency, its warmth—made Greg's stomach flip, and he pushed back into a third. It lingered on and on, just the simple press of mouths, and Greg felt care clutch at him until it ached behind his eyes.

The kiss broke unevenly: lips and bodies hesitantly pulling apart. They were stood looking at each other for a long moment afterward.

"…Hello," Greg said. He wanted to smooth the frazzled tuft of hair on Mycroft's forehead. He wanted to _touch_ him.

But Mycroft stepped back and gestured toward the table. "Our food is getting cold," he said, his voice rough.

Greg cleared his throat. When he sucked in a deep breath, it shook. "What did you order?"

"Something hearty for you, something lighter for me."

"Hearty?"

"You're going to need strength if Sherlock is going to follow you back to the office, correct?"

"He'd better not. I have paperwork to do."

"He's bored. It's difficult to convince him of anything when he's bored."

"Can we not talk about Sherlock right now?"

Mycroft half-smiled. "What would you rather talk about instead?"

" _Lunch._ "

Greg revelled in Mycroft's huff of laughter.

He had laid on quite a picnic. The table was heavy not only with covered dishes, but also a water pitcher, several bottled beverages, a pot of tea, and a basket of bread. Something tucked within the spread was scattering light, and it wasn't until he came round to his seat that Greg realised what it was: a small votive candle, white and singular and glinting, in a cut glass candleholder that looked like one of a million Greg had seen in his lifetime. It was ridiculous, and it was romantic. And it was charming. He studied Mycroft's profile as he uncovered their lunch.

"Please sit," said Mycroft.

"So we can talk now," Greg said, spreading a napkin over his lap.

"We may talk in here, yes."

"But not out there."

"Some call this the club for misanthropes. Others say it's the club for unclubbable men."

"And what do you say?"

"I say precisely what it is: a club established for those of us who value solitude and quiet, but enjoy the traditional benefits a club provides."

"I've always thought these sorts of clubs were old-fashioned."

"A club like this never goes out of fashion." Mycroft opened a bottle of Chinotto and offered it to him. He wondered if he was ever going to get used to the image of Mycroft acting as if he were in service. Half of him hoped he never did.

"Aren't you worried I'm not going to like what you ordered for me?" Greg asked.

"No."

Greg snorted. "Some butler you are."

Mycroft's expression was perfect pantomime offence. " _Waiter_ , surely."

"Some waiter, then."

"You will enjoy your meal."

"Yes, _sir_."

As Mycroft ladled out a steaming bowl of soup, he did a fairly good job of fighting off a smile. "That'll do." He placed it in front of Greg.

"What's this, then?" Greg took a sniff. It smelled rich and deep, like basil and beans and warmth.

"Cicerchia with ravioli." Mycroft ladled himself a bowl, then flipped open the cloth covering the basket. "Bread roll?"

"So we're having Italian."

"It's possible."

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

"As you wish." Mycroft didn't wait for Greg to answer his initial question, but buttered a bread roll and placed it—deferentially, no matter what his words might say—on Greg's plate.

"I smell seafood."

"You might."

"And also…lemon, maybe?"

"Perhaps."

"Just tell me. I'll see in a moment."

"Then you'll only have to wait a moment, won't you."

As it turned out, Greg was right on all counts. From under the covered dish in front of himself, Mycroft revealed some sort of salad topped with scallops and shrimp, and in front of Greg was a grilled chicken dish with a perfect round of goat cheese on top. It was accompanied by a small pile of wild greens.

"Sharon will thank you for getting me something vaguely healthy."

"That's the cook's famous lemon butter sauce. I don't think she'll thank me _that_ much."

"In that case, _I'll_ thank you."

"That's what I thought you'd say."

It was probably healthier for him than the fish and chips he would otherwise have been eating, but Greg was too busy being overwhelmed by the flavour of the soup to say so. He groaned, and halfway into his seat Mycroft paused, his arse six inches above the chair. He cleared his throat.

"I see," he said, sitting at last and managing to look more scattered than smug.

Greg swallowed his mouthful. "My compliments to the chef."

"I'll be certain to tell him so."

"You know the chef?"

"Of course." Mycroft seemed offended he'd even asked.

Trying not to snicker, Greg refocused on his meal. "So what's the occasion?"

"We need an occasion?" At a loss for a reply, Greg glanced sidelong at Mycroft. He'd tucked his napkin around his lap and was gracefully eating soup like a graduate of whatever sort of boys' finishing school nonsense he'd been put through, but when he noticed Greg's attention he stopped. "What?" he said.

"Just looking."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, but then he examined him right back.

It started out casual, but after a breath or two of meeting Mycroft's gaze Greg became ensnared in the light and warmth of his regard. After a few more breaths the entire world narrowed to eye contact and air and the steady rise of connection between them, with all else fading muffled and muted into the background like so much cotton wool. If there hadn't been a table between them Greg might have thrown himself at Mycroft just to scuttle the strange comfortable-discomfort that hung in the air.

His throat was too tight.

At some point they'd been looking at each other for so long that somehow his objectivity had shifted, like saying a word over and over and over until it lost meaning. Clarity settled over his vision and he saw Mycroft fully, deeply, objectively: the line of his body and the rise of his chest, the tiny movements of his mouth and the humanity in his eyes. Greg was overwhelmed with a proprietary rush, gripped with the desire to clutch Mycroft to him and never let go.

"Hello," he said, for lack of anything better to say.

"Hello," Mycroft said.

"How's…your…er. Lunch." His stomach clenched, and he wondered if he'd be able to finish eating.

"Fine. Yours?"

"Erm. Fine. Good. G… Great, even."

Mycroft took a deep breath, audible in the quiet of the room. He licked his lips.

The buzz of a vibrating phone shattered the connection. After a moment, Mycroft twitched and pulled it out of his pocket. "Yes," he said, without breaking Greg's gaze.

In his peripheral vision Greg saw the bob of Mycroft's adam's apple, but he still didn't break eye contact. He made fists and pressed them to his thighs; his hands itched.

"If you have the time, I trust your experience," Mycroft said. "But if I could make a request, move the first option to number three, and the fourth…"

Excluded from the coded discussion, Greg drifted into a reverie. He envisioned striding up to Mycroft in the centre of the room, taking him by the face, and kissing him. But instead of the usual kiss with force, the one in his imagination was gentle, unhurried, the perfect act of affection. Of care. With perfect fidelity Greg conjured up what it might be like in that moment: the quiet pleasure of Mycroft's mouth and his touch, and the imagined the beauty of it as they as they existed within the same breath and swam in the warm pool of their communion. In his mind they kissed over and over and over again. It made his spine go soft.

Oh, god. _Mycroft._

He was jolted from his thoughts by the movement of Mycroft pocketing his phone and shifting his weight in his seat. "Apologies."

Greg cleared his throat. "Don't…er. Don't worry about it."

"Did I make a mistake with the food?"

He realised he was sitting motionless with the spoon in his hand, staring into the middle distance. His soup was getting cold, yet it still took a massive amount of control not to abandon his meal in favour of enacting his fantasy. _He wanted to touch him._ "No," Greg said, and gave Mycroft what felt like a pale imitation of his smile. There was a softness in Mycroft eyes. "It's perfect."

Mycroft only smiled, and didn't say a word.

Greg managed to finish their meal in spite of the clench of his stomach, and sooner than he would have liked he had to get back to work.

"This was nice," he said at the door. He stifled his urge to straighten Mycroft's tie. His hands still itched to touch him. "Why don't we have lunch more often?"

"We do. But ordinarily we spend our time on the sofa in my office."

And with that simple sentence, Greg's stomach plummeted. He was right. He was right, and of course he was right, but hearing it stated like that—a fact, indisputable—made it sound so…sordid. Superficial. He studied Mycroft's expression, but there was nothing to be read there but calm truth. Their conversation at Mycroft's house floated up, and Greg was struck with belated dismay.

Did Mycroft really think Greg only considered him an orgasm machine?

Various sorts of assurances popped into his head, but no matter how he tried to form them, the words stuck in his throat. The heaviness of the atmosphere seemed to prevent it. Longing echoing through every cell, Greg licked his lips. He willed Mycroft to understand simply by looking at his face.

Surely he could. He'd deduced far less.

But Mycroft only took a deep breath before stepping in and kissing him softly. "Go back to work, Gregory."

Greg cleared his throat. "Right. Right," he said, checking for the keys he knew were in his pocket and settling his coat closer round him. "Work." He dared look into Mycroft's face. It still was unreadable. "When am I going to see you next?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't say."

"Er." Again, Greg cleared his throat. "Soon, I hope."

"I hope."

This time, Greg was the one who initiated the kiss. If he couldn't verbalise exactly how he felt, he could still use his mouth to try. As it went on, it drew out into a slow, wet, unending tangle, and Greg clutched onto Mycroft; the sand under his feet was shifting, shifting, and Greg needed an anchor.

His efforts to communicate with the kiss seemed to be rebounding, so that the more emotion he poured into it the more emotion he received. His head spun, and the kiss cracked into one hard press of lips, then another, until they were panting into each other's mouths. " _Mycroft…_ " Greg breathed. He tried to kiss him again, but was helpless to keep from gritting out a whimper, and he grimaced against the ache blossoming in his chest. Mycroft whined so quietly Greg might have missed it if the room hadn't been so utterly silent. He was trembling. They both were.

Greg blinked his eyes open to find his vision was blurred. He scrubbed his hand over his face and took a shattered breath.

"Right." All the emotion on top of a full stomach was beginning to nauseate him, and his heart was pounding so hard it shook his bones. He hoped the frigid winds outside would lower his temperature and steady his spinning head. "Erm."

"Goodbye." Mycroft hesitated, then stepped back. He scrubbed his hands on his outer thighs then crossed his arms: an unfamiliar gesture, and strangely young. For a moment Greg met his eyes, but the expression there was too intense, so instead he put his hand on the doorknob and stared at the series of daguerreotypes hung next to the door.

"Thanks. For lunch. And for inviting me here."

"It was my pleasure."

Greg dared look back at him, betraying a wobbly smile. "I'll phone."

"Please."

"Erm. Bye."

"Gregory." Hesitantly, Greg turned, over-aware of the fact that given any latitude at all he was likely to jump Mycroft right then and there, appropriate or not. Illustrative or not. "At the end of the corridor is a lift. At the ground floor take a right, and then the third left. That will put you out a side door closest to your car."

"Okay," Greg said. He tried to clear his throat, but the roughness in his voice wasn't entirely physical. 

The door swung silently open on its hinges, and he retreated to the lift. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on the back of his neck as he pressed the button.

While he waited for the door to open, he dared look over.

Mycroft was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets and with such a tiny curl to his mouth that if Greg didn't know him as well as he did, he might not even have known it was there. He didn't look away, and Greg didn't look away either, and by the time the lift arrived Greg was on the very edge of crossing the corridor at a run to tear his clothes off and press him into the floor. But then the doors slid open, and Greg stepped in. As he hit the button he took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that he still had to work for the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg pulled up a promotion process pdf on his computer and stared at it for a while. He thought about Sharon's upcoming trip, and he thought about responsibility. He thought about his years in the same job in the same position, and he thought what about the future might look like. He thought about Mycroft._
> 
> Everything round him was changing anyway. Perhaps it was just…time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks go to Mazarin221B, Bakerstmel, and Wearitcounts, my betas for this chapter. Their attention and support make this whole story better, and I appreciate them immensely.

Thanks to the fire (and to Sherlock, Greg grudgingly admitted to himself), the rest of the afternoon had mostly been dotting Is and crossing Ts…which was good, because Sharon was arriving in a week and he didn't want any cases to get in the way. The next morning was more of the same. Donovan took care of things at the crime scene while he stayed at the Yard to tackle the mountains of work generated when a major portion of one's evidence burns to the ground.

Mid-morning he took a break for one of the terrible Christmas pastries someone had left next to the coffee maker—someone with more exuberance for the upcoming holiday than their baking skills could adequately handle—and settled in for a bit of YouTube-based procrastination. Switching windows, his eye was snagged by the email from the Chief Super he'd received a few days earlier. It consisted of only a single link to the jobs section of the Met's website, and to a vacancy for Detective Chief Inspector specifically. Its subject line read 'CONSIDER'.

He stopped. He considered.

Just because it was a simple message didn't mean it was easy to swallow. As he'd explained to Mycroft, he wasn't sure he was ready to give up on excitement to embrace a paperwork-based existence. Then again, it was long past time that Greg had applied for a promotion, and despite the fact that he'd used every trick in his arsenal to hold on to Inspector without getting knocked down for lack of ambition, his conversation with Mycroft had started him thinking that perhaps being a DCI wouldn't be too bad after all.

Besides which: everything round him was changing anyway. Perhaps it was just…time.

Feeling more than a little contemplative, Greg abandoned YouTube and went to fetch a fresh cup of coffee. It was entirely possible that he'd reached the point in his life where promotion was finally the correct direction for him to go.

* * *

His morning visitor was a round woman with once-dark, silvering hair and fire in her eyes. Patel escorted her there with as much grace as was possible when one was dealing with someone who'd apparently spent the night in a rubbish bin. When she sat in Greg's office, he tossed aside the pen he had been chewing on and breathed through his mouth.

"I'm told you have important information on your mobile, Mrs Kelkar." As the landlord of the house which had just burnt to a crisp, she claimed to have clues they were going to want to see; Constable Brigham at the front desk had phoned—too smug for his own good—to inform Greg that since he was so fond of amateur detectives, they'd all agreed he should be the one to deal with her. Greg had told him they were hilarious, but now that she was here, it was sort of too late now. It should have been Patel taking her statement. He only kept himself from sighing because he didn't want to inhale the pong. "Do you have your phone with you?"

"Of course I do. I was hardly going to leave behind _all_ the information. Even if I had to run, I'd make certain."

Resolute, he _did not sigh_. "May I see it?"

She pulled out her mobile and poked at the screen. "But I'll need it back," she said, handing it over.

Expecting very little, he scrolled through. There were several photos of men, most taken through doors only just cracked open. There was one blurred shot of some sort of mechanical something with giant springs, and another that looked like a small oven. "Do you have any of their faces?"

"I tried to take their pictures in the reflection of the windows. Did you see? I needed to be very careful or they might have seen me taking their photographs."

It was a fair point. "Of course. That was very clever."

Her spine straightened. "I watch detective shows."

"Well, real life isn't always like a detective show."

"I know that," she snapped, and silence fell between them.

He cleared his throat. "Well. This is great work." As nebulous as the pictures appeared to be, there was no telling what the tech department could wring out. They were always surprising him. "Thank you Mrs—"

"No, but there's more." She made a grabbing motion so he'd hand the phone over. After poking through it for a moment, she handed it back with a scanning app pulled up to show a whole folder of items labelled, 'refuse'.

"Is this…" Greg blinked. "Did you pick through their rubbish bin?" he said, beginning to respect her commitment.

"Of course I did," she said, raising her chin. "I thought they might just burn anything incriminating, what with all that fire they have around, but it didn't hurt to be thorough. I also have a log of when they were making the smells and when they were out."

"The…smells?"

"The fire smells. When they were burning things. Sulfur. Metal. Et cetera. Very industrial, I thought. It's not a commercial area, so I thought we'd be getting complaints and I'd have to evict, but no one said a thing. Which I'm glad for, because I wanted them to stay."

"But why would you _want_ them around?"

Her eyes flashed with excitement. "I had a real-life mystery in my house, didn't I?"

* * *

She _had_ been in the rubbish bin all night, it turned out.

"I let the man out the side door when the coast was clear."

"The man with the grey hair."

"Grey hair, grey shirt. All grey. And then I ran. I was scared."

"And you hid in a rubbish bin."

"Until I thought it was safe to phone you. I saw on this programme once where this man was hiding in a coal chute and he sneezed and the murderer found him, so I didn't dare speak until I knew I could have you pick me up. Sergeant Malo believed me once I showed him the photos. Which was nice of him. He's such a sweet young man. Do you know him? He reminds me of my friend Rita's boy. There was one time when—"

Greg cleared his throat. "Mrs Kelkar?"

It stopped the ramble in its tracks. She straightened up. "Ah."

"I don't suppose I might ask you to be a detective for a little while longer?"

She waved away his words. "Of course. Anything I can do to help, I will."

"Excellent." And what with the sneaky rubbish excavation and hiding in the bin all night, he believed her. She was no Sherlock, certainly, but as amateur detectives went, maybe she wasn't as bad as all that. "This man, the man in grey. Can you describe him for me?"

"Grey," she shrugged. "Pretty much grey. That scraggly sort of devil beard—what's it called. Goat? Goatee. But longer. He wasn't much younger than I am, I'd say, but he was dressed like a student underneath the science clothes. Or blacksmith clothes, maybe. Science-blacksmith. Is that a thing? I wonder if that's how the big tech companies—"

"Mrs Kelkar?"

"Oh, right." His constant redirection didn't seem to bother her. She seemed to take it all in stride, as if this were simply a necessary requisite of her style of conversation. "I think that's all I can say. His eyes were kind of…small. Dark and squinty, but that may just have been the fumes from whatever he'd been working on. I'm assuming you'll want me to work with a sketch artist, and I'm happy to. What else do you want to know?"

"I'd like you to tell me everything you can about these men. Their names, how many there were, whether they had references when they came to you, where they worked. I don't suppose their applications—"

"Were lost to the fire, I'm afraid. At least, I assume so. Didn't seem like there was going to be much left, after all that burned through."

Truer words were never spoken. Unfortunately.

"Still," she continued, "I'll be fine, don't worry about me. I'm more resilient than I look. I can always go north to start up a little—"

Greg only cleared his throat.

"Yes. Right. Well, I have a file on my mobile I can give you. It has decent background information on the man who rented the place, the man who signed the contract. I rarely saw him at the house. At first I thought it was some sort of brothel situation, and no, no, no, I wouldn't have stood for that. But then I learned the older man was the father of my lodger, and I felt quite sure it was all on the up-and-up. He always paid on time, didn't give me any cause to worry on that front. …What else did you say you wanted to know?"

"References?"

"The father had some, but the most recent was only some computer company, and they're a dime a dozen these days, aren't they? It was a former employer. They were very nice about him. Even said I should call back if I have any questions. Any questions at all. Very mannerly."

"And the men who did actually live there? What were their names?"

"Just one, really. Antonio, his name was. The others were maybe his friends? I couldn't tell, honestly. They were very secretive. Kept to themselves. Coming over all the time, at all hours, though, making smells. Such smells! Do you think they were artists? Student artists get all up to all sorts. Why, my friend Doreen had one staying with her who used to—"

Greg shifted in his seat.

"Ah." A charming hardness came into her gaze as she refocused; she was so determined to help, even if she didn't know what to do. "You don't want to hear this. This is off-topic. Detectives! Detective work, that's what we're about, isn't it?"

"Yes." Greg tried very, very hard not to chuckle. "We need to find these men."

"I will help you."

"And I want you to help us. Is there anything else you noticed? Something you didn't take photos of, or that didn't show up in their rubbish bin?"

"Not that I know of. But if you find the man in grey, he can tell you more. If he's…managed to get away. Are you looking for him? Your boys should be looking. He was weird, but seemed so nice. The little I met of him. If you find him, will you tell me? I worry."

Greg weighed the pros and cons of telling her, and with all her desire to help and insistence on her own resiliency, he figured she was the type you tell. "The man was named Vincent Hemingway, and I'm sorry to inform you, but he was found dead this morning."

"Murdered?"

"I'm afraid so."

"By one of the boys?"

"It seems likely."

Her eyes went wide. "I'm not safe." She shook her head. "I'm not safe until you find them."

Greg wondered when it was going to get to that. "Arrangements are already being made to take care of you, Mrs Kelkar."

"Don't patronise me. Just tell me the facts. I can take it."

"I promise you, I'm not."

"So I'll be safe."

"We have a house for you to go to, and you'll be watched. But I can't stress enough that the sooner we catch these men the sooner you can get back to your plans to…go north, you said?"

"Set up a bookshop," she said. Her mouth was a line. "I've always wanted to run a bookshop."

This time, Greg didn't hold back his smile. "The sooner we catch them the sooner you can set up your bookshop."

"Make a new start."

"Yes."

She leaned forward. "Catch them, Detective. The man in grey was nice. You boys had better catch them."

Greg met her gaze. "Let's go over the data on your phone again."

* * *

After Mrs Kelkar had left, Greg couldn't focus. He pulled up a promotion process pdf on his computer and stared at it for a while. He thought about Sharon's upcoming trip, and he thought about responsibility. He thought about his years in the same job in the same position, and he thought what about the future might look like. He thought about Mycroft.

He thought about his changing life.

He left the pdf open and went to lunch.

On the walk to the cafe, the lingering memory of The Diogenes Club followed him like a trailing mist. The air smelled of snow, but at this time of year it was likely only to fall as rain. He phoned up Mycroft. "Lunch is going to be far less interesting today," he said without saying hello. Nerves thrilled through him. He blamed it on the cold. "No lemon-butter sauce."

"A common-or-garden sandwich?" said Mycroft.

Greg swallowed hard in an attempt to sound normal. "Seems likely."

"Are you perhaps feeling a bit guilty for taking off in the midst of an investigation?"

"Donovan had it covered."

A warm silence flowed over the line, and Greg tried to relax into it.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "How are you?"

"That's a question."

"Oh?"

"It's complicated. How are you?" Greg's heart pounded in his palms as he clutched his mobile, and he shoved his free hand into his pocket.

"Can I help with something?"

"Not really. How are you?"

"I felt the same about my own lunch."

"That it was complicated?"

"That it wasn't very interesting."

"An unsatisfactory quail egg, and coffee that didn't spend enough time passing through the digestive tract of a civet? I do declare, how _will_ you ever survive?"

"…Must you?"

The amusement curling his voice was tremendously appealing. Greg craved. "I must."

"I suspected so."

"Well, you _do_ know me."

"I do."

Greg pressed his phone hard to his ear as if that would pull Mycroft closer. It was silent between them for a few moments of longing.

"Well," Mycroft said, "I _was_ going to ask you something that may require some thought, but if you're in this sort of mood—"

"Ask."

"If we're feeling a bit punchy today…"

"Ask me."

"I wouldn't want to interrupt your comedy routine."

"Mycroft."

"Perhaps this isn't the time."

" _Mycroft._ "

For a moment, Greg wasn't sure he was going to give in, but Mycroft cleared his throat again. "There is a black tie gala on the 10th, in part to celebrate the holiday, but also to recognise a delegation from Australia and an ambassador's birthday. If it interests you, we might… That is, if you would like, I would… If you think you'd—"

Greg had stopped in his tracks, all humour melted away. "Are you asking me to go with you?" It had just about slowed to normal, but the uncertainty in Mycroft's voice was making Greg's heart race again.

"If you'd like to. There's absolutely no obligation."

"Wow. That's. Wow." Greg reached the cafe, and he stood there in front of the glass doors, processing. "Are you sure?"

"Am I certain I'd like to invite you? Yes, I'm—"

"Are you sure you want me there at all? It's not really my usual haunt."

"If it's something that interests you, I suspect it would be pleasant, yes."

"…Wow."

"As I said, it _is_ black tie. Do you have appropriate dress?"

"Do I have—" A woman came up behind him to go into the cafe, and Greg woke up from his stupor. He stepped sideways to let her pass. "Do I have a tux? No. Oh god, I can't wear a hired tux." Greg thought about the implications of going to an event with all _those_ people, and the idea scared the shit out of him. Never mind the potential price tag. "No, this is a terrible idea. Sorry, I just… Listen, I've got to run. Get that sandwich. Sorry. Talk to you later?"

There was a long silence before Mycroft cleared his throat again. "Of course."

Greg's heart plummeted. "Sorry."

"Not a problem. As I said, there was no obligation. I only wonder—" Mycroft cut himself short. "No. I'll speak with you soon, Gregory."

"You'd better." He sent up a prayer that Mycroft wouldn't assume the refusal was about Greg's lack feelings for him instead of lack of funds. But the quip must have softened the sting a bit, because when Mycroft said goodbye, it was almost warm.

Greg wanted to reassure him.

Greg wanted to touch him.

Deep in thought, he pushed into the cafe to buy his lunch. By the time he got back to the office there was at least one certainty in his life:

He pulled the promotion pdf front and centre and began making plans.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg continued scrolling through a web article about the Mint's plans for a new pound coin and took another bite of his porridge, only half paying attention to either. Some slopped off the spoon and onto his desk. He frowned. "Sir?"_
> 
> _"We've got a new DI who's not coming through on a case. I'd like you to make some time for him this afternoon."_
> 
> The DCI gives Greg an assignment, and it threatens to scuttle his chances for an easy week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas WearItCounts, BakerStMel, and Mazarin221B, who always know when to tell me to turn up the volume. They are the best.

By the time Greg had dragged himself into the office the next day, there was already a note on his desk. It bore his name in a neat, familiar hand.

_Gregory,_

it began,

_I've considered the options, and have found a solution you might accept. I suspect you would be uncomfortable with the gift of a tailor-made tuxedo, but I think you might be less bothered by one made to your measurements by the shop detailed at the bottom of this note. I am assured Jason would be happy to assist you in spite of the short notice. If you would allow me to arrange this gift, it would honour and please me more than I could adequately say._

_With hope and affection,_  
_Mycroft_

Greg read the note over three times and then simply stared at it. _With hope and affection._ It made his stomach flip. It also made his brain fog over.

He folded it up and tucked it into his front pocket to consider after he'd got a little work done.

And maybe after his heart stopped racing.

* * *

"Lestrade," DCI Lindsey announced over the line. He was about five years Greg's junior and usually tended to have a somewhat hands-off approach to Greg's work, so the fact that he had such a hard note to his voice was cause for some suspicion.

Greg continued scrolling through a web article about the Mint's plans for a new pound coin and took another bite of his porridge, only half paying attention to either. Some slopped off the spoon and onto his desk. He frowned. "Sir?"

"We've got a new DI who's not coming through on a case. I'd like you to make some time for him this afternoon."

Greg closed his eyes. "I'm still working on the Hemingway case."

"Donovan tells me that's on hold for the moment. This is more important."

 _Dammit, Donovan._ "So what time should I expect him?"

"Oh, I don't know, Lestrade," Lindsey said, sounding like he was putting on a show of frustration, as if he'd seen an example of it on the telly but didn't really feel it himself. "This afternoon. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Greg said, trying with all his will not to sigh. He ate another mouthful of food to keep himself from saying anything; he needed to stay on everyone's good side if he had any hope of his promotion application going through.

"Excellent. Then _enjoy._ "

He rang off. Greg put down his spoon and scrubbed at his face and tried to swallow down his annoyance. Hopefully the new officer would be quick enough, and would leave Greg alone after a brief meeting.

If his luck held out, that is. But the hard note in Lindsey's voice suggested Greg not bet on his chances.

* * *

At around 3:30pm, just as Greg was losing patience with the day's paperwork, a man knocked on the door jamb and startled Greg out of his skin. He sloshed coffee all over the corner of his desk.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, scrambling in his desk drawers for some of the stashed takeaway napkins.

To his immediate credit, the man lunged forward to help. "Oh christ, sorry," he said, sweeping sodden napkins into the small bin at the side of Greg's desk and then going in for another pass. Thankful, Greg picked up the soaked paperwork and let it drip over the bin.

"That's—that's fine. Don't worry about it," Greg said, batting at the wetness with his hand and shaking as much as he could off the surface. Some had beaded off, but in other parts the paper was irretrievably stained. They were going to stink to high heaven tomorrow, too. Nothing like the smell of old milky coffee.

"I didn't mean to surprise you," the man said as he scrubbed the desk dry with a wad of napkins. His accent was vaguely American. "Did I screw it all up?"

Greg paged through them. "No, I'll—I guess if I set them back here they'll not stick together, so I'll just…" He gave them one last shake and walked over to lay them out, one by one, across the long radiator underneath the industrial windows that looked out onto the street. That being done, he turned around and finally got a good look at his visitor.

And stopped dead.

The man was _gorgeous_. Dazzingly so: tall, with sharp cheekbones, a sharper jaw, dark skin, and hazel eyes. And then he looked up at Greg, and smiled, and his visage changed. He went from looking like a runway model to someone who'd play football with you then buy you a pint afterword, and Greg was stunned. _Jesus christ, who are you?_

As if in answer, the stranger stepped forward, his hand extended. "Detective Inspector Sam Hopkins," he said.

Greg shook with him and tried to ignore the thrill zinging up his arm. He stifled his urge to waggle his hand afterward to dissipate the sensation. "DI Greg Lestrade."

"Yeah, I know. It's great to meet you, DI Lestrade." Hopkins smiled that warm smile again. _Fuck_.

"So, er. I. What can I do for you?" Greg said, gesturing to the seat to the right of his desk. Hopkins sat down and crossed his legs, which only served to point out how long they were. As long as Mycroft's, probably. It was not a soothing thought. _Jesus,_ he thought, sitting in his chair and trying not to squirm. He struggled to zero in on what Hopkins had been saying for the last minute or so.

"…know they've been getting bad press recently, but I still don't know if they're really the key to this whole thing."

"So…I'm sorry, I think I missed something." If Greg didn't get his act together and focus, Hopkins was going to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. "Who?"

Hopkins grinned at him knowingly. "Long night last night?"

Greg flashed on a lazy half hour with his cock in his hand, and falling asleep with the powerful longing to curl up beside Mycroft. "Kind of."

Hopkins's smiled more broadly for a moment. "Randall Microsystems. Grange's competitor."

"Ahh." _Who is Grange?_

"And I don't think it was them."

"What makes you think that?"

Hopkins's features firmed, and Greg understood why he'd risen up the ranks so quickly. He looked as intense as a wolf. "Instinct."

Greg nodded, suppressing a tinge of jealousy. "And you want me to…"

After a moment, Hopkins relaxed and shrugged. "Honestly? I don't know. I mean, I know why Pitts wants you in on this. But I don't really think it's necessary. Sorry to say."

And suddenly this entire conversation—one-sided as it had been—became clear. "Someone wants this case closed."

Hopkins nodded. "And I'm being pressured to say it was Randall Microsystems."

"And you don't think it was."

"I really don't."

"What pings your instincts?"

"A lot of things, including the fact that professionals wouldn't have tossed the room like they were in a spy film. They destroyed it."

It was a very good point. "So how do you want to work this?"

Hopkins twitched a shrug and ruffled his hair; the twists bounced as he seemed to consider the most tactful way to put it.

Greg took pity on him. "How about…I'll come along to the scene, you can show me what you've found, and we can go from there? I'm willing to trust your instinct, but if we can make it look like we're both—"

"Yeah." Hopkins gave him a grateful look. "Good. Sorry they've pulled you into this."

"Oh, trust me. I know what it's like to be pushed about like a pawn." Greg stood. "So. I'll meet you over there? Where's the address?"

Hopkins handed him the folder he'd come in with. "This has some of the main details of the case, if you want to glance over it first. Don't know if—"

"Sure. I'll meet you there."

"Right." Hopkins cleared his throat and stood, then adjusted his tie. "Well, okay. Nice doing business with you." He smirked and held out his hand, and Greg took it, feeling as if they'd just formed some sort of pact.

Which, in a way, they had.

* * *

While he was putting his coat on, a text came in.

`I have just received word I will be out of communication for the next two days. Alas, I cannot tell you more than that.`

Greg's stomach somersaulted. The last time Mycroft had had to disappear for some work thing, he'd been gone almost a week. But that was before they were dating, and before there was some flavour of feelings involved. It was a considerably shorter period, yet he felt more distressed this time. `Two days isn't that bad.`

`Not at all.`

`Is it dangerous?` Immediately, Greg regretted the question. He added, `Sorry. None of my business.` but Mycroft's follow-up text was already coming in.

`I'm sorry. I cannot say anything one way or the other.`

`Yeah, I know. Sorry.`

`I don't suppose you would believe me if I said you needn't worry.`

Not on your life. `I'll try not to.`

`It would be appreciated.`

Greg was going to anxiety-gnaw through every pen in the metropolitan area, but sure. `I'm a dad. Worrying is part of my job description.`

`Shall I phone when I'm through?`

After a moment of deliberation, Greg laid his cards on the line. `You know I'll take every scrap of your free time I can get,` Greg sent, and meant it. He plastered over his nerves by going for a brief walk instead of getting directly into his car, and he was pushing out the door of Starbucks with a cup of coffee by the time Mycroft replied.

`More than an orgasm machine.`

Luckily there was a bit of outdoor seating that Greg could collapse into, because his knees went wobbly. He clutched onto his phone and the hot coffee cup and tried to breathe. The words never wavered, no matter how he stared at them.

_More than an orgasm machine._

He couldn't help but remember it: the fire in the grate, an expensive teacup, Mycroft's thighs under his heels. And a joke that was not really a joke.

Mycroft knew. He must know now, right? That Greg cared?

At the time, a phrase had immediately presented itself as a response. A phrase from the text conversation they'd had a few weeks back, the conversation that had cemented their decision to try a real relationship together.

But even as he'd sat on the settee the other night and brimmed with post-orgasm affection, he'd chickened out. It had been too terrifying to say the words aloud, particularly after they'd just had some sort of moment. Now, however? Perhaps he could say it now. He'd already laid his cards on the line once during this conversation. He might as well go all in.

Greg closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He tried to slow his pounding heart.

It didn't work.

He leaned on the cafe table and burned his tongue on a sip of coffee. Then he did it again. He took another breath. He marshalled his courage. `Nothing so casual` he finally typed, and he jittered all the way to Hopkins's crime scene.

* * *

The address in the folder was for a house in Notting Hill. Hopkins led him out the back, through the massive garden, and into a detached shed which was larger and about ten times more posh than Greg's first flat. SOCO had already been and gone, leaving smudges of fingerprint dust everywhere.

"Tell me more about the vic," Greg said, wandering a circuit round the well-appointed interior. He studied a photograph on the wall; it was of a good looking couple about his age, and a pair of young children. It looked to be a holiday snap which had been framed to seem more polished than it really was. "Is this him?"

"Peter Benton Grange. Investment banker, and a complete…er…tool. Found stabbed by one of the swords from the corridor to the toilet and supply room, pinned to the wall like a…I dunno. A butterfly on a card. Murder weapon was wiped clean of prints."

"And the wife?"

"Georgia Grange. CEO of Abbey Corp. This is her home office."

"So not her only office."

"No, but apparently she works from here a lot. Client meetings and all. There's a small car park accessed through this other door. Room for three cars. Mrs Grange likes to be here for the kids and the staff. My guess, it's to be a buffer because her husband is such a…you know. Not a nice person."

"Hopkins. Do you really think I'm bothered by swearing?"

"Dickhead, then," he said. "Apparently he's an alcoholic, a liar, and otherwise a thorough _dickhead_."

Greg stifled a grin. "Was he drunk when he was killed?"

"Very."

"That doesn't tell us anything, though."

"SOCO _did_ find a piece of paper in his pocket. It said 'Jan'. Nothing else. Just 'Jan'."

"And it wasn't a calendar page?"

"Memo paper from his desk."

"That's weird. Maybe he has a big appointment coming up next month. Or maybe it's someone called Jan? Someone connected to both of them?"

"We're looking into it."

"Who else has access to the office?"

"Besides Georgia and Peter? Melody Vega, her assistant, David Turnbull, their private courier-slash-tech, and that's it. They all have alibis."

"What's Georgia's?"

"She and Melody were on a long walk when he was killed, and say they missed the whole thing."

"Not exactly watertight."

"No, but it couldn't have been either of them anyway. The angle of the wound is all wrong. And I doubt either of them had the strength to stab all the way through Grange and into the wall. Leverage, you know."

"And now you're being pressured to declare it a burglary gone wrong."

Hopkins rolled his eyes. "There have been multiple allegations of corporate espionage by Randall Microsystems against Grange Corp, since they're the biggest competitor. But if it _was_ a professional burglary, why wouldn't they have been prepared? Why would they have killed him with something from the house? They have no motive to kill Grange otherwise, and he wasn't meant to be in here anyway. It doesn't make sense. Also, why would they have tossed the place? Surely they'd want to hide what they'd done for as long as possible, not advertise. There's something else going on, but until I have evidence I can't convince the bosses they're wrong, and I can't take my time and gather evidence when everyone is up my arse."

"Which is when two heads are better than one." Greg caught his eye. "I'm serious. If they'd wanted someone with seniority to convince you to play the game, they shouldn't have chosen me. Let's take advantage."

An easy, stunning smile spread across Hopkins's face. "I think whoever's railroading me made a very big mistake." They stared at each other, and Greg had trouble looking away. But then Hopkins startled and looked down at a carabiner watch he had hanging from a belt loop. "Shit, sorry. I'm so sorry. Time really got away from me today. I know we just got here, but can we postpone this until tomorrow? It's my turn to pick up my daughter."

"Oh. Er, sure." Greg's brain spun, trying to follow along with the rapid change of topic. He followed Hopkins out to their cars. "I remember those days."

"Shit." Hopkins practically bounced down the front steps and trotted the last few feet on the drive, ducking under the scene tape as if it were a dance. "I'm going to be so late."

Greg couldn't help but laugh even as he struggled to keep up. "Breathe."

"Last time I was this late she told all her friends I'd been eaten by a sort of radioactive dinosaur. For nearly a month, they didn't stop asking me if I was going to turn into a superhero."

Greg wasn't trying very hard not to laugh as he fumbled for his own keys.

Hopkins flashed Greg another brilliant smile. "See you tomorrow. Thanks. And sorry again. Let's consider this a preamble." And then he was gone, peeling out before Greg had even got his door open, and Greg stared at the retreating taillights while envying Hopkins his energy and trying to wrestle his mind round to the fact that he could cut out early.

Maybe this might turn out to be an easy week after all.

* * *

He'd been more lazy than usual by letting a stack of post pile over the past month, and since he was home early Greg decided to be a responsible adult. Fortified with a glass of scotch, he settled in to sort through it all. Junk, junk, bill, fundraising flyer, junk… He stopped on a familiar sheet of paper near the bottom of the pile and tried to determine where to file it.

It was the report from Mycroft's physician detailing his clean bill of health. Greg had found it on his kitchen table early on—suddenly, mysteriously, without a word from Mycroft—and that very afternoon had arranged to have his own results sent so he could present them to Mycroft in person. The expression on his face when Greg had handed them over had been…memorable. Apprehension, embarrassment, relief. And not a small amount of arousal, which probably explained the enthusiasm of the sex that night, and why Greg's throat had been scream-rough the next day. There was something combustive about using semen as lube.

That had been Greg's first signal that Mycroft could be a gloriously filthy bastard.

Greg had last been fucking men in the late 80s and early 90s, back when things were considerably different to the way they were now. More edgy, for one thing. More risky, for another. But regardless of the fact that gay relationships were now often visible and their sex was safe, being in a relationship with Mycroft remained daunting. Not only had Greg barely begun growing accustomed to the idea of having a boyfriend at all, there was still the fact that Mycroft hadn't been in a relationship for almost 25 years. The pressure on him was bound to be intimidating to anyone, whether they were emotionally invested or not. And Greg absolutely was.

Which rather was the point: Greg cared about him more than expected, so by definition it was worth shoring up and getting used to the idea. And sooner rather than later, too, if he decided to take Mycroft up on his invitation.

If he went, it would be a certain sign of his commitment; Mycroft couldn't possibly be unsure how he felt, making so public a display. But it would also place strain their careers, and that was certain. He had no illusions about the conservative nature of their workplaces, cultural progress notwithstanding. Blokes were still getting beat up outside of pubs, after all. Were the two of them willing to risk it, just for the chance to drink champagne and ogle each other in formalwear?

He wasn't sure yet, but wouldn't Mycroft have decided for himself it was worth it before he even asked?

 _Ugh._ Regardless of anything else, the idea of letting Mycroft buy him clothing—as if he were some sort of _child_ —rankled.

Greg shunted both the thought and the medical results aside before taking a fortifying sip of scotch and moving on. Bill, junk flyer, junk, junk…and then at the bottom was an envelope which was _not_ junk, though he wished it had been; it looked benign enough on the outside, but from the return address he knew it could only be one thing:

The final closing details from selling the house he'd shared with Victoria and Sharon.

He took a larger mouthful of scotch than he probably should have. _Well. That's an end to that, then._ His stomach churned. Knowing it had been coming didn't make it any easier, it turned out. He slit open the envelope and began to look the papers over, but after about ten seconds of that he abandoned the papers to pour himself three more fingers of scotch, throw himself onto the sofa, and let the memories swamp him:

_Sharon had dumped her ice skates in the middle of the foyer. Again. Eleventy-one times Greg had managed to avoid tripping over them, but the eleventy-second time he hadn't been so lucky. Down he'd come like a felled tree in a forest, awkwardly crashing against branch after branch on his way down. He smacked his forehead hard against the corner of the entranceway table and sat there on the flagstones for ages, dazed and bleeding, before Victoria had found him and ushered him off to A &E. He'd never forgotten the smothered amusement on the face of the nurse as she patched him up and declared him fine, but that had been nothing to the week-long ribbing his colleagues had given him for getting hurt at home instead of on duty. It took months to get the blood out of all the cracks the floor._

_Victoria had been sidetracked during a cocktail party they were throwing to celebrate some fundraiser or other. She'd turned the blender on without the lid, spraying strawberry daiquiri over every visible surface in the kitchen and into the hard-to-reach places as well. It had looked like a crime scene and smelled like a fermenting fruit warehouse, and Greg remembered vividly trying to explain to Sharon when she came back from her grandmother's why the kitchen smelled so funny, all while ignoring Victoria's face as she sat across the sitting room, nursing her hangover and trying not to laugh._

_Victoria's mother's death was sudden enough that it had left them all stunned into silence for at least a day. But when Greg got home from work the following evening he'd found Sharon already in bed and Vic curled up on the sofa, dry-eyed and catatonic. It wasn't until he'd touched her on the shoulder that the dam burst, and Greg had wrapped up with her for the rest of the night and let himself be an anchor as she cried._

The memories began to bleed into one another.

_He and Victoria having sneaky sex on their old sofa while Sharon was asleep, whispering, panting, not too lust-drunk to freeze still at every sound just in case._

_Greg hoisting the steam cleaner up the damn stairs after the cat had gone senile, cursing every time._

_Greg packing up books after the divorce, trying to remember which he'd brought into the relationship over two decades before, and trying to suss out which he'd brought into the house since._

He looked across the sitting room at the small shelf of books he'd ended up with, and sighed. He'd left so many with Victoria---even ones which were rightfully his, but might have been a source of friction. It was going to take a lot of work to get the library back up to snuff.

Perhaps this could be a chance to craft a new collection. Embrace the change, as it were. It might be good for him. After all, everything else in his life was changing. Why not his book collection?

He stared at the sweep of genres represented, and began to consider how he could expand. It was easier to fixate on his tiny library than think about the closure of a door to his past. His body thrummed with sadness, a pale grey which dulled everything as he dragged himself into the kitchen, opened up the cupboards to stare blindly into them, then plopped down onto the sofa again.

Perfectly aware he was being an idiot, Greg drank some more. His heart sank.

He missed Mycroft.

The bastard had picked a fine time to be gone, or busy, or whatever he was doing. Greg considered phoning anyway, but didn't want to be an arsehole; he was beginning to get the impression that if he broke into Mycroft's quarantine to ask for help, Mycroft might try to give it, and Greg didn't want to be responsible for World War Three. Or even World War Two-and-a-half. Or World Police Action.

When a ridiculous thought resolved through the haze that perhaps Mycroft had engineered all this on purpose so he wouldn't have to deal with Greg's flailing emotions, Greg forced himself up from the sofa and went to draw himself a bath. Bath, pizza. Maybe no more scotch.

His hand hovered over the bottle for a bit too long, but he didn't take it into the bath with him. He phoned the delivery place instead.

* * *

A bath and some pizza helped.

They usually did.

"Old reliables," Greg pronounced to his empty flat, then snorted. He'd got himself just to the edge of sloppy with the scotch before pulling back, and the level he was at now was loose enough to give him some perspective:

There was a reason why midlife crises happened. There must be some sort of common experience, a common mental timer, that caused people to deconstruct their lives when they hit a certain age. But instead of a flashy red car, he resolved to take the bull by the horns and direct it into something fruitful. The divorce might not have been his idea, but it had certainly come at a good time; he was free to embrace all the newness that came at him. A new flat. A new job title. A new relationship. He could be a new man. And this time, he had the life experience to know he could handle it all.

Once upon a time he had freaked out that entering into this relationship with Mycroft was going to be too different from the way it had been when he'd entered into a new relationship with Victoria. But now he realised the whole of it: this was exactly the right relationship at exactly the right time. It couldn't have gone off any other way. And Mycroft was precisely who he needed.

He fumbled in the sofa cushions for his mobile and pulled up a recent video from their encrypted smut-to-phone pipeline. Mycroft had set up his mobile to capture, instead of his hands at work, his face. At the time Greg had considered it cheating, but now as he rewatched all the twitching and lip-biting, as he listened to Mycroft quietly moan and pant and swear, watched him jerk through orgasm, Greg was proud of his creativity. And when Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled…

When Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled, Greg couldn't help but smile back.

It was the smile that Mycroft shared with him only in private moments, the playful one that brimmed with joy, and Greg's stomach squeezed at the sight of it. He looked beautiful. His happiness was beautiful. His eyes were beautiful. The planes of his face were beautiful. Even his nose was fucking beautiful. Greg scrubbed his hand over his stubble and sighed. To him, Mycroft Holmes was beautiful.

After a moment, he opened up his voice memo app and pressed record.

"I, er, I'm just. I know I'm supposed to be letting you alone to…work, and everything, but I just. I wanted to let you know that I miss you." Silence spun out for a while as Greg considered and rejected a few choice phrases. "That's all. I miss you. Hope you're…whatever you're doing is going okay. …Okay, I'm just… I miss you. Bye."

Greg sent the message along their secure channel before he thought better of it, got up to fetch another piece of long-cold pizza, then found his book and staggered off to bed. That was more than enough unrest for one evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the millionth time that day, Greg took his mobile out of his pocket and stared at it, wishing he could text. He desperately wanted contact. He_ needed _contact._
> 
> This was a goddamn terrible time for Mycroft to be out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks go to my betas BakerStMel, WearItCounts, and Mazarin221B, who always make sure I mean what I say.

Greg poured over photos of the Granges' house, which had been posted to a mobile bulletin board and wheeled into a conference room. He was gnawing on the week's ballpoint, which barely helped his general sense of frustration.

“Breakfast not enough, sir?” Donovan smirked, sitting on the edge of the desk next to him.

Greg had to take the pen out of his mouth to speak. "I'm fine,” he said, not even trying to hide the petulance in his voice.

“Are you sure?” She grinned into his face. He flicked the pen into her lap and she recoiled, the smile morphing to disgust as she picked up the damp, gnawed-up plastic thing with forefinger and thumb and tossed it onto the desk beside her. “Ugh. Are you five?”

“What do you want,” he said, ignoring her as she wiped her hand on her trouser leg.

She handed him a file. "Got the results back on the arson near the university."

"Already?"

"No accelerant, just a spark in the cellar. There was a lot of butane stored in the next room over and it went up like…the blazes, actually."

"Butane?"

"And a bunch of metalworking equipment. Holmes was right about the dead guy, of course. Metalworker, and probably was on foot from here."

"So Mrs Kelkar's story checks out."

Donovan gave him her patented 'seems like' look. "We're still waiting on the prints." She gestured to the board. "Is this your thing with…what's his name?"

"Hopkins. And it's _our_ thing, now. Thank you for that."

She didn't seem bothered. "What about _these_ prints?"

"Tons. All over the place. They're running them, but I doubt they'll be useful."

"What about this footprint on the seat of the visitor's chair?"

"I thought it was strange, but Hopkins tells me the assistant had just replaced the curtains."

"Where _is_ Hopkins? Or his sergeant? I want to meet them."

"Late. Something about his mother. I dunno. He sounded harried."

"Yikes."

"Well, I remember those days. Young kid, busy with work." He blew out a breath and stared at the picture of their victim, for the twentieth time analysing the way in which he was pinned to the wall with a sword through his chest. "Better him than me." He could have been talking about either Hopkins or the victim. He didn't really care which.

"What was this?" Donovan pointed to the photograph of a plinth in the corridor.

"It was some sort of bronze sculpture, according to Georgia Grange. The wife. We're getting the insurance documentation, but it's not here yet."

"Want me to see if I can bully their insurance company into coughing up the list?"

“They'll get it to us.”

“But it’s worth…a _shot_.”

Greg froze, then turned to her, blinking. Her eyes gleamed. “Was that a pun?”

"Maybe."

"Must you?"

“Does the fact it's not a bullet wound mean the joke isn't funny?”

“How long have you been saving that one up?"

"I couldn't wait anymore."

"It's _terrible_."

"Says you."

He tried not to smile as _she_ tried not to smile. "Go check on the insurance results, for christ's sake.”

“Yessir,” she said, and dropped his ballpoint down the back of his shirt on her way out.

“UGH.” He squirmed to get it down to the small of his back, where he’d at least have half a chance of manoeuvring it out. It was cold. _“Donovan.”_

Her chuckle floated back to him, and he gritted his teeth as he untucked the tails, shook the pen to the ground, then shuddered his nervous system back into place.

When he tucked in his shirt again the action jump-started the itch of mild arousal under his skin, reminding him of fingernail scratches and hot breath, of slickness and pleasure, and he had to shake his head roughly to knock the lust away. 

But a frisson of guilt rode along with it. _More than an orgasm machine._ The phrase still plucked at him, even a week later. Had he really been acting as if Mycroft meant nothing more to him but a means to an end? Of course not; otherwise, why would he have wanted an actual relationship in the first place? They could have gone on just as they'd started, fucking on the sofa in Mycroft's office or whenever he came back from travelling. Greg truly thought he had made it clear that Mycroft meant something more to him than that. There was affection there, and maybe something more, but whatever it was obviously was more than simple lust.

And it would only get more complicated, especially if he took up Mycroft on his invitation to the gala. On that front, Greg still was undecided; it would be such a big step, this early in the relationship. Coming out for each other? They wouldn't be able to put the toothpaste back into the tube after that one. Before they went public, they'd have to be sure.

For the millionth time that day, Greg took his mobile out of his pocket and stared at it, wishing he could text. He desperately wanted contact. He _needed_ contact. This was a goddamn _terrible_ time for Mycroft to be out of reach. With a sigh, he shoved the phone away again.

Donovan's timing was perfect. No sooner had the mobile disappeared then she came into the room with a stack of paperwork. She took one look at his face and rolled her eyes.

"I presume that was The Boyfriend on the phone."

He grimaced. "If by which you mean Mycroft, yes," he said, going along with it. He didn't have the stamina to field questions about where Mycroft was and why Greg wasn't texting. Furthermore, he'd never stopped hating when Donovan called Mycroft 'The Boyfriend', and he didn't feel like having that discussion again either.

"Seeing him tonight, I hope?"

"None of your business."

"It's all of our business," she said. "I'm afraid you're going to chew through every pen in the department this week if you don't get laid soon."

"Hilarious." He held his hand out for the papers. His heart beat triple time. "Just give me those."

She grinned.

Hopkins ran through the door, out of breath and still wearing his coat. "Sorry, hi. I'll be right in. Chaos this morning. My mother thought I was supposed to be getting Neesie ready for school, but I thought—" He stopped. "Never mind. You don't care. Let me just drop this off at my desk and I'll be right in." He nodded to Donovan, flashed her a smile, and disappeared.

She turned to Greg, her eyes wide. "Whoa."

"Yeah."

_"Whoa."_

"Yeah."

"He married?"

Greg nearly swallowed his tongue. He was glad he wasn't chewing the pen anymore. "Thought you were off the market."

"For him?" She blew out a breath and shook her head as if waking herself up. "I think I'd reconsider."

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to date within the department."

"Well, wouldn't you?"

It was time for a change the subject. "I'm going to get a coffee. Want one?"

"I think _need_ is more the word. _Daaamn._ "

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Greg said, heading for the break room and leaving her to…think whatever she was thinking about.

Hopkins caught up with him in the corridor. "Sorry." He settled his shirt and tie, smoothing a hand along his _remarkably_ fit shoulders. Greg made a fist and jammed it into his pocket. Just because he was in a relationship didn't mean he couldn't still want. Though, come to think of it, that had been Vic's trouble all along. His stomach clenched. "Complicated morning. You have kids, you said?"

"One. Pretty much grown, though. Well, most of the time she is, but sometimes I wonder."

"Mine's five. And this morning she decided that she didn't have to go to school if she hid all her shoes in the garden pond. I'm not sure I would have noticed if it hadn't overflowed all over the footpath." Greg tried not to laugh. "Too smart for her own good. Well, for _my own good_ , really. I'm raising her with my mother, who is a saint. Sometimes it's depressing how much better my mother is at all this parenting. Half the time, I have no idea what I'm doing. Though I guess she raised me, so she's got a lot of practice."

"Yeah, but your mum was quite a bit younger then." Greg smiled and set a new pot of coffee to brew.

"True, she's getting old. She's about…" Apparently, Hopkins was struck by some belated self-awareness. "Wait, how old are you?"

"Closer to her age than yours, I bet."

"Then I'm gonna keep my mouth shut."

"Probably wise." 

Hopkins smirked and shrugged the awkwardness away. "Anyway, Neesie made my morning difficult, as you can imagine." Greg washed out three mugs and asked him if he had any photos, so Hopkins produced from his wallet two snaps of a little girl with a halo of curling black hair round her head. She was beaming at the camera with a bright grin the spitting image of her father's. There was even the same sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

"She's a cute kid. What's her name, again?"

"Jenise. Neesie. Yours?"

"Sharon."

"And she's grown."

"Twenty-one. In Edinburgh. Though she gets to…" Greg cleared his throat to fight the inevitable thickness as he thought about it. "She's got a place at a fancy film programme in LA, so she'll be going there for a while."

"Does that get any easier?"

"What, kids leaving? Ask me in two years."

"I can't even imagine. I miss Neesie like crazy after only a week away."

"You said it's you and your mum?"

"Yeah, her mother isn't…" Hopkins cleared his throat. "Isn't in the picture. It's just me and her grandma."

"It's a juggling act."

"It is. But it's working out okay. I mean, apart from this morning. We'll see what happens once she gets to be a teenager. Too big for her britches and acting up, if she takes after me, which unfortunately she does. Luckily, I have the benefit of hindsight. She's already in dance, and I'm putting her in violin and every damn thing I can as soon as she's old enough."

"Ohhh, dance will keep her busy."

"Sharon danced?"

"For years." Greg grinned. "It'll definitely keep her occupied, but take it from me: unless you want to commit to spending a mint on shoes, you might try her on football. The little tutus are cute, but boots are cheaper. And if she takes to it, the matches are way, way more entertaining than 3-hour-long amateur recitals."

"Spoken as the voice of experience."

The coffee finished brewing, and Greg snorted as he poured for them all. "Put it this way: if Sharon had stuck with football, my hair might still be brown."

* * *

"Whoever our killer was did a really shitty job of pretending it was a burglary gone wrong." Donovan sipped her drink and gestured to the list of items the insurance company had provided them. "No paper? None of the rare books behind glass? The ones that say 'steal me' on them?"

"Only the coin collection, another bronze, and some expensive jewellery," said Hopkins.

"And no paintings."

There was art everywhere, but she was right; none of the pictures on the wall had been tampered with, even the smaller pieces that would have been a cinch to carry away. "Nope," Greg said.

"So you agree that it's not Randall," said Hopkins.

"Yep," Greg and Donovan said together.

A blonde woman Greg had never met before came into the room bearing a gigantic file box. She looked like she could still be in secondary. "Yes?" he asked.

"Good morning, sir. Sirs. I just wanted to let you know I've got the contents of their emails."

"It's about time," Hopkins said. He gestured to Greg and Donovan. "DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, this is Sergeant Kelly. Kelly is my sergeant. She's new, too."

Which explained why she looked unfamiliar. Greg wondered if she and Hopkins had been paired up simply to make the rest of the force feel old. "Welcome."

"Thank you, sir." She looked at him and blushed, then averted her eyes. He pinned his gaze down at the paper in his hand. _Oh goody. Please let Donovan not have seen that._

"Have you gone through them yet?" Hopkins took the file box from her and started flipping through.

"A few. There are…a lot. You might want to look at the top ones I've flagged, though."

They turned out to be a series of emails to Peter Grange from someone named John A. Neligan, accusing him of stealing 1.5 million pounds from his father's retirement account and threatening his life unless he made it right.

"John A. Neligan?" Greg said, frowning. "What the hell kind of name is Neligan?"

"The kind whose initials spell out J-A-N," said Hopkins.

"Guess it really wasn't a reference to January."

"Guess we have a new suspect," said Donovan. "I'll look him up, sir?"

"Please." Greg sat on the desk and stared at the wall of photos, just to make sure he wasn't missing anything more before he jumped tracks onto this new lead.

"I'm going to go through the rest of these," Kelly said. After waiting for Hopkins's sidetracked wave, she hoisted the file box as if it weighed nothing—though it was pretty much as large as her torso—and dimpled at Greg before heading for the door. Embarrassed, Greg nodded at her politely and bit the inside of his cheek.

"She seems nice," said Donovan, and Greg caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye. So she did see it. Excellent. She never teased him about _anything_ , so that should go great.

"So far," Hopkins said absently, still reading through the file on Neligan. "It's only been about a month, but so far it's going well."

Greg looked at his profile, then considered Kelly, then thought about Donovan's expression when he saw her looking. He pulled out his mobile and looked at it, just in case Mycroft had decided to come back early and had responded.

He frowned.

"Didn't text back yet?" asked Donovan.

"Bring Neligan into custody," Hopkins said, finally looking up from his papers. "I need to speak with him. Now."

* * *

It was easier said than done.

"He's in the wind," Donovan reported over the phone. There was a cheer as Nottingham scored, and Greg slapped his hand over the mouthpiece. But it was too late. "Wait. Are you _at the pub_?!"

"…Maybe." Yes.

"Is Hopkins with you?"

"…Maybe." Yes.

"Jesus chr—" Donovan cut herself off. After a moment, during which Greg assumed she was controlling her temper, she started again. "Working, I assume?"

"We were both starved, so we went to get a meal."

"And I suppose this has nothing to do with ice hockey."

"Of course not."

She let out a little growl. Presumably she couldn't help herself. "So what are you working on, sir?"

"At the moment? Fish pie. But before that we were talking about the Hemingway case."

"Any result?"

"Not really."

"Good use of time, then."

" _Donovan._ "

"Sorry, sir. Just… Low blood sugar. Some of us plebs get hungry too."

"Well, in spite of your rampant insubordination, why don't you come out here."

"I don't know if that's a good idea, sir."

Greg looked across the table at Hopkins's profile as he watched the match. "I think it's an _excellent_ idea."

* * *

Belfast beat Nottingham before Donovan got there, and Hopkins shoved aside the remainder of his chips and picked up the folder that had the arson results. "Metal shop, huh?"

"Oh, so now you want to focus." Greg's snort echoed in his glass as he drank.

“It's a cricket match. What the hell do I care about cricket?”

“Hey, remember where you live now.”

“I can’t help it if this is a nation fascinated with a game that doesn’t make any fucking sense.” He grinned, and his eyes shone.

“We’ve a long history with cricket. We're used to it.”

“You'd have to be.” Hopkins took a sip of his drink, warm gaze locked on Greg over the rim of his glass, and Greg’s stomach flipped. For the first time, Greg wondered if maybe Sergeant Kelly wasn't the only one interested in him. He also wondered if any of it even mattered. Feeling both concerned and also profoundly arrogant, he checked to see whether he'd missed any incoming texts from Mycroft and fumbled for a way to change the subject back to the case.

“Right,” Hopkins said. “Murder.”

A woman carrying two drinks from the bar passed just in time to hear this, and raised an eyebrow at them before moving on to the next table. Greg snorted.

Hopkins laughed. “I love cop bars,” he said. Then he prissily rearranged the photos of the bloody crime scene across the entire surface of the table, as if he were crafting a very important art exhibition, and Greg couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

Donovan plunked her bag down on the seat next to him. "I see how it is."

"Oh, give me your damn order," Greg said, standing. He went to procure the next round and watched them from the bar. The moment she was settled they had their heads bent over the evidence, conspiring with the intensity of the fresh-faced, and Greg crossed his fingers that the intensity might spin into a real connection. Their sense of ambition and focus was so complimentary, how could it not? It probably would have been a good idea to see what they were figuring out, but he was loath to interrupt, and even more loath to abandon their beer. And besides which: they really didn't need him.

The revelation dragged down his heart even as he felt a strange sort of pride. They were the new class. And they were good at their jobs. And Greg really wasn't needed there anymore.

He swallowed. Greg watched them go back and forth as they spat out ideas, and their energy only grew the longer they conferred. They were becoming more entrenched, but it had been a strange day preceded by a stranger evening, and his batteries were running flat. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to get home and into his pyjamas, to curl up with a book, and try not to moon over Mycroft.

Greg cancelled his own beer, grabbed their round, and mentally prepared his excuses. It was time to move on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg tried to give as much back as he took, but he wasn't sure he was succeeding; Mycroft felt so gorgeous that Greg was losing the ability to focus. The familiarity was a comfort, and the comfort was heaven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe thanks to my betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and WearItCounts, who always help me make sure the emotions resonate to the corners of the room.

Greg shuffled into his flat. He drank a glass of water, sighed, then made a beeline for his bath. By the time he fell asleep, soaked into lethargy and reading in bed, he'd managed mostly to relax. Still, the desire for comfort hung about the corners of his mind like a spectre, unwilling or unable to let him go, and the continued longing for Mycroft gave him a mild case of heartburn.

He woke several hours later with a start, something lizard-like in the back of his brain pinging him awake. His vision resolved on Mycroft's face right above him: expression wide and apologetic, his mouth half open. Before he could speak Greg let out a gasp of sudden, bone-deep relief, hooked his hand around the back of Mycroft's neck, and tugged him down for a kiss.

Mycroft's mouth was wet and soft, and Greg fell into it willingly. His head swam. He clutched on and tangled their legs, holding him close and warm and secure as they kissed.

"I apologise for startling you," Mycroft said, muffled, after the fervency finally slowed. He clutched Greg tightly and pressed his face into his neck.

"What time is it?" Greg murmured, smoothing his hand down Mycroft's back. He'd shed his jacket before waking Greg, and his shirt was so very warm, its weave soft and delicious to the touch.

"One o'clock in the morning."

"What's happened?"

He felt Mycroft shake his head against his neck. "I'm sorry, I can't say—“

Greg shook his own head in return. "No, no." He pressed his face to Mycroft's hair and inhaled. "That's fine."

"Thank you."

They held each other for a few moments. Greg wrapped his arms more firmly about Mycroft's ribs and squeezed, wondering at what it point it had become normal to find Mycroft unexpectedly in his house. Mycroft went boneless on top of him, and Greg felt him suck in a hitching breath and let it out slowly. "So it didn't go well, then," said Greg.

It was a long time before Mycroft spoke. "No," Mycroft said with a dry, humourless chuckle that came out like a burst of air on Greg's neck. "It did not."

Greg began to stroke Mycroft's spine again. "Trouble?"

After a few brushes of his hand, Mycroft finally spoke. "There might be."

Greg squeezed him. "You'll fix it."

He felt Mycroft inhale slowly, then exhale a word: " _Gregory_ ". With a quiet noise, he kissed him again, and Greg felt his chest tighten in sympathy. He tried to exude comfort with every press of his mouth, with every touch of his hand, with the curl of his leg over Mycroft's thigh. His own day melted away as the kiss went on, replaced by tenderness that filled his throat and made it tough to breathe. He broke the kiss and buried his face against Mycroft's shoulder just to manage enough air.

Mycroft was shaking. " _Thank you._ "

Greg couldn't stop stroking Mycroft's back. "What can I do for you?"

"Only this."

"Do you want to take a bath? A shower?" Maybe that sort of thing helped settle Mycroft, too. Maybe he would like to take one together.

Hope spinning up tight in his chest, Greg watched Mycroft mull this over and finally jerk a nod. "If it wouldn't be an imposition."

"Not at all. Here, I can—"

"Don't trouble yourself. You look comfortable."

_Ah._ "You're sure?"

"Of course." Mycroft kissed him like an apology.

"You know where everything is? The towels are—"

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, I know. Thank you." With another gentle kiss and an almost-shy smile, Mycroft floated into the bath.

Greg blew out a breath, trying to expel the twinge of disappointment; he missed the soap-slick slide, the heat, and the stutter of his hand against freshly-cleaned, wet skin. He missed kissing under the shower. He missed the intimacy of towelling each other dry. Besides which, he'd missed Mycroft, and didn't particularly want to let him out of his sight.

In spite of this, by the time Mycroft slid into bed, ruddy and clean, warmth rolling off his skin, Greg had dozed off again. He was just hazy enough that he was wrapped round Mycroft before his brain was fully awake. "Better?" Greg said after a few kisses.

"Very much so. Thank you."

"I'm glad." He traced Mycroft's mouth. "It always helps me."

The expression on Mycroft's face was so soft it hurt. Greg wondered what he was thinking. "I'm aware."

They stared at each other, and Greg cleared his throat to keep from saying something damning. "So, er. Now?"

"I brought food. I haven't eaten. I don't suppose you would mind if we…"

The path Greg's hand made up and down Mycroft's spine, his skin and its heat, comforted Greg just as much as it was meant to comfort Mycroft. "Did you leave it in the kitchen?"

"I did."

"It's my turn. Stay here. I'll fix you a plate."

The smile on Mycroft's face grew, spreading happy and fond from ear to ear. "All right."

Greg stared back for a moment, caught motionless by the beauty of it, and after a moment was compelled to lean in and press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He held it for a breath, then slid out from under Mycroft's body to creep out to the kitchen. Warmth burned in the centre of his chest.

He came back with two plates of food and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. "This is not the dish I was expecting," he said quietly, the hush appropriate for the lateness and the intimacy of the hour.

"You buy pizza."

Greg translated that into English from Mycroftian. "Comfort food?"

"Is necessary sometimes, yes."

"I'm not going to disagree." Greg looked down at the meal on Mycroft's plate as he handed it over: the crispy duck confit, the roasted potatoes, the small pile of red cabbage. "But french food is comfort food?"

"When that's what your mother made, yes."

"Your mother cooks?"

Mycroft blinked at him. "Of course."

"Well I don't know," Greg blustered, handing Mycroft both plates so he could get settled next to him. "I've always imagined your family as the type with a cook and a nanny. Maids. A butler."

"Housekeeper," Mycroft said with half a smile. “Depending on what age we were. But my mother does love to cook. Sometimes she likes to cook too much. My father, on the other hand, bakes." He hoisted the bottle and looked around. "No glasses?"

"Nope. We're eating greasy comfort food in bed. I'm in my pyjamas. You're in your pants. This is…not a stellar bottle of wine. So we're going to pass it back and forth like students. It seems appropriate."

Mycroft's smile spread. "I can't say our housekeeper would have approved."

"Well, where I come from it's biscuit crumbs in bed and reading books under the duvet by torchlight, so you're going to have to adjust."

Mycroft dug his feet into the blanket rucked up at the foot of the bed. "Gladly," he said, and he smiled.

They ate slowly, licking duck fat off their fingers and drinking the tart, dark red straight from the bottle. It was decadent, Greg thought, and kind of a ridiculous thing to be doing at one a.m. Still, his stomach fluttered with happiness, and he glanced sideways.

The expression on Mycroft's face as he took his first slug from the bottle was priceless. He looked naughty and awkward, like a teenager sneaking sips from a parent's liquor stash, and Greg couldn't help but laugh out loud. "I'm trying to envision you blowing off curfew to sneak out with a pack of mates and smoke cheap cigarettes. I'm coming up short."

"I'm afraid my mischief took quite a different bent altogether."

"So you admit you there was mischief."

"Of a sort."

"What sort?"

"What do you suppose?" Mycroft said archly.

Greg snorted. "Oh, no. You don't get to answer that question with another question. You've already admitted there was something."

"Let's just say I came by my current employment honestly."

"You pretended you were James Bond? No, it was M, wasn't it."

"Perhaps."

"Did you abuse your position in student leadership roles?"

"Define 'abuse'."

Greg laughed. Even better, Mycroft chuckled as well, which Greg took to be an excellent sign. Then he caught Mycroft's eye, and his stomach flipped; there was something undefinable there, something unknowable but deep. "So it was probably good we didn't know each other as teenagers."

"I'd hazard a guess you were more of a youth than a teenager."

Greg thought back to one night in particular, chain smoking out back behind the school and running from the accusatory—but misplaced—judgement of the beat cop who'd found them. He chuckled. "Near enough."

"I am sleeping with a rough youth from the town. My headmaster would be horrified. We were warned off befriending you, I'll have you know."

"Too right." Greg ate some potato. "And how are you finding my friendship so far?"

"Tolerable," Mycroft said, smiling with his voice.

Greg felt very, very warm.

* * *

When he'd finished his meal, Greg set his plate aside and curled up against his headboard with the bottle of wine. Mycroft continued to pick at the last of his cabbage.

"And?" said Mycroft.

They hadn't been talking about anything. They'd been sitting in silence, and Greg had been marinating in the pleasure of their companionship. "And what?"

"The usual thing is to tell one's partner about one's day. And you have a backlog of two days."

"You hadn't asked."

"I'm asking now."

Greg considered what he felt like sharing. "We've got a new DI. Young. American."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "By which you mean his parents are ex-pats?"

"No, I mean he moved here a decade ago. He's nice."

"And his name?"

"If I tell you, is there any chance you won't have all the information on him emailed to you while we sleep?"

Mycroft's eyebrow lifted further. "What's to say I couldn't lay my hands on that information whether you tell me or no?"

"When you say things like that, it doesn't make me _more_ comfortable." Greg tried not to smile. Apparently he was so far gone that even Mycroft's creepier tendencies were endearing.

"If you feel you need privacy about this…"

Greg snorted. "His name is Hopkins. Samuel Hopkins. Well, I'm assuming Samuel. He just said Sam."

"And he's nice, hm?"

"Sure," Greg said with a shrug. "I've only known him two days, but sure."

"Attractive?"

"Oh my god. Please tell me you're not going to be jealous."

"Need I be?"

Put that way, there really was no question. "Depends. Are you interested in coming to the pub with me when there's a match on, eating chips, and talking about forensic methodology?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Then I'd say you're fine."

Mycroft set his plate and napkin aside and slid down against the headboard to mirror Greg's posture. It looked a bit ridiculous on him, but the way he stroked his hand down the outside of Greg's hip wasn't ridiculous at all; it was worshipful, and it was tender. Greg wondered—not for the first time—what Mycroft felt for him. "What else happened?" Mycroft said, only a foot away now, his voice hushed.

Greg's stomach thrilled at the sudden surge of intimacy. It was tough not to be sidetracked with the need to kiss the shine off his mouth. "Nothing in particular. Hopkins. The pub. I wish I could tell you more about the case."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Greg felt like a specimen. "Something is bothering you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Do you honestly believe that I can't tell when you're holding back? You do the same thing at press conferences, Gregory. It's not a very difficult deduction."

Greg dragged his gaze up from Mycroft's mouth to meet his eye. Again, his stomach flipped, and again, he wanted to kiss him—if only so Mycroft wouldn't read how he felt. "I'm just not telling you about the case, that's all."

"Gregory."

Apparently, he wasn't going to be put off. Greg doubted that even kissing would sidetrack him for long. His heart raced. "I… The house has sold. Got the final papers yesterday."

Mycroft's expression didn't move. "You've been anticipating this."

"Doesn't make the finality much easier."

"I don't expect it does." For a moment, Mycroft's hand lifted off the bed in a stifled motion toward Greg. "May I… I don't know if it would be welcome right now, but…may I touch you?"

"Oh for christ's sake." With a heavy thunk, Greg set the wine bottle on the bedside table. "I _always want you to touch me_." He rolled over to claim Mycroft's mouth.

The night had been a slow, deliberate dance, heavy with duck grease and the late hour, but the last few minutes had twisted it with need. He kissed emphatically, pushing in hard, biting at Mycroft's lips, digging fingers into his flesh. Mycroft's whine broke, and with quiet strength he flipped Greg onto his back.

His world spun. Mycroft pressed him further into the mattress, and he let himself fall.

Mycroft was weight and heat and heavy breath, the smell of Greg's shampoo and dampness at the base of his spine. He was longing and familiarity—beautiful, perfect familiarity. The way his mouth moved was familiar and the way his hands moved was familiar. The tiny motions of his hips as he became aroused were familiar. His noises were familiar. Greg tried to give as much back as he took, but he wasn't sure he was succeeding; Mycroft felt so gorgeous that Greg was losing the ability to focus. The familiarity was a comfort, and the comfort was heaven.

Mycroft slid his hands up underneath Greg's t-shirt to push it off. "This disparity is frustrating."

"That's because you prefer me to be the naked one."

"Not always."

"You always want me naked."

"Ah, now. _That_ may be true."

Greg was a bit wobbly from all the emotion in the air, and a laugh bubbled up. After a moment, Mycroft joined in. They stared at each other, smiling, and Greg's heart somersaulted. Mycroft’s smile went foggy before he slid off the bed to remove his shorts.

Before Greg joined in, he took the time to shake his eyes back into focus and scrub his face with both hands. _Mycroft._

As he fumbled to take his socks off, he realised that he was trembling. It made him too clumsy to strip quickly, so by the time he could crash back onto the bed and wrap himself round Mycroft, desperation had tightened his throat. He clung hard for several seconds just to get his bearings.

"Sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me tonight," he said.

"It's far from being a problem."

"The house thing shouldn't bother me."

"But it does."

"But it shouldn't."

"Hush." Mycroft kissed Greg so deeply his jaw cracked. The ache spread like ink in water, but after a moment his brain transmuted it into pleasure. He hooked his leg round Mycroft's thigh to pull him closer. Mycroft stroked his hand down his leg and gripped his arse. "I have a request," Mycroft murmured, but then he kissed Greg again and he didn't allow him to respond. Greg hummed into his mouth. They kissed for a full minute before Mycroft spoke again. "I don't want to think anymore. Save me from my thoughts. I _don't want to think anymore_."

The images that sentence conjured up were overwhelming. Hormones flooded Greg's system, and he ducked in for another kiss. "Hands and knees, then," he said against Mycroft's mouth.

Stifling a noise in his throat, Mycroft obeyed, and let his head hang down between his arms. Greg gently pressed between his shoulder blades, positioning him with his head down and his arse in the air. He stroked down his spine.

"No thinking."

Mycroft rolled his head against the pillow. "No," he said. His voice rasped.

The base of his spine was still hot, but his arse cheeks were cold. Greg tasted the temperature change, nipping a line down the back of his thigh. "Mmm. No thinking." He took a harder bite out of the meat of his arse, making him jump and then moan. "No thinking." With both hands, he spread Mycroft's cheeks apart, and began.

If there was a way to impart affection using one's tongue and lips against an arse, Greg was going to try it. Slow, hard circles that went on and on and on; quick, light flicking that made Mycroft whine with the intensity; forceful licks with seconds of breath in between, to keep him guessing; sweet streams of air against wet, tender skin; humming, the vibrations pressed in to make the tissues swell. Greg let himself float in the timeless space of providing pleasure, reading Mycroft's reactions in the tension in his back and the shaking of his thighs. With his thumb, he drew slippery circles against the muscle and smiled as Mycroft choked out a moan. He bit a large mouthful of Mycroft's cheek and touched him so delicately that Mycroft pushed back for more. He pressed the flat of his tongue there and held it until he felt the tiny tremors of muscle grow to full contractions.

The noises Mycroft was making were burbling and incoherent. Greg used his mouth on him until he started thrusting into the air.

"Aching?" he whispered, not wanting to disturb the haze of arousal. He waited until Mycroft whimpered and shifted before continuing. "Ready to come?" This whimper was louder, and Mycroft curled his hips.

Gently, very gently, Greg pushed sideways on his hip so Mycroft would lie down, and Greg scooted down with his head in the opposite direction to put his cock in the region of Mycroft's mouth.

After a moment, Mycroft moaned loudly and wrapped one arm around Greg's thigh. Greg felt heat and shaking breath, and a pressure that pulled suddenly at his core. _Oh god yes._

The position was always just a bit imperfect—someone usually got sidetracked one way or the other, or arms fell asleep before anyone came—but when it was a matter of keeping a troubled and terrifyingly-intelligent brain occupied, there were fewer more perfect activities than asking him to suck you off while you were going down on him.

More than once Greg found himself tonguing lazily at Mycroft's frenulum and drooling while Mycroft worshiped him with deep, gorgeous pulls. Then he would marshal his focus and take Mycroft deep into his throat again, and the attention at his groin would slow to a gentle simmer as Mycroft moaned.

Greg lost track of time as they traded off attention. He fought to drag his forehead up from where it had fallen against Mycroft's upper thigh, but at that moment Mycroft took Greg's cock down his throat and swallowed hard. Greg groaned. Floating with pleasure, he pushed Mycroft's thighs wider and slid his hand between his legs. Mycroft whined around Greg's cock, spread his legs as widely as possible, and canted his hips. Gently, Greg began to pet the pad of his finger against his hole, over and over, drawing circles, playing with the delicate tissue, losing himself in the circle of bliss given and received. The large muscles in Mycroft's thighs began to shake, and his cock jerked over and over, straining for attention. Finally, Greg sucked it down and immediately felt fingers dig into his flank. There was a cool rush of air as his cock fell from Mycroft's mouth.

_"Gregory."_ His voice broke, and he nuzzled his face into Greg's thigh.

Greg swallowed again before pulling off and gasping for air. "Good?" he said, sounding like a bucket of gravel.

Mycroft shivered. "Nnnhnn." He moaned. His cock bumped Greg's chin. He seemed desperately close to orgasm. If he had any other desires for that night he'd have to say so, because Greg suspected all he'd have to do was suck him down while touching his arse and Mycroft would go off like a rocket.

"Do you want to come now?"

"Mmnngh…" He was shaking.

"Yes? Down my throat?"

Mycroft moaned, and Greg smiled. Mindless, indeed. He took a few deep breaths as if he were preparing to go underwater, then dove in.

It was a good enough angle, as these things go. Trying very hard to relax, he took Mycroft down, then further, then further, past where a gag would be triggered, swallowing. He spared a bit of brain to remember what he'd been doing with his other hand, and he felt Mycroft's cock respond as he stroked and petted and touched. The world narrowed in an intense blur of focus and relaxation as the room around them echoed with Mycroft's cries.

Greg's lungs burned for air, but it took only a few more swallows and a few steady circles with his fingertips before Mycroft went hard, harder, rock hard, and came. He jerked. He cried out. His arse contracted in pulses. Greg ran out of oxygen before Mycroft finished coming, and when he pulled away Mycroft shot across his cheek and onto the bed. He clung to Greg's leg to ride out the last of it, and whimpered against Greg's thigh.

When the climax had settled, Mycroft slumped. Greg turned round and let him float, stroking his hair back and kissing his forehead. Without a word, Mycroft rolled over and snugged up to Greg's front. Greg blinked, wondering if they were meant to be spooning. Then Mycroft lifted up a pleasure-weak thigh, placed Greg's cock between his legs, and moved his hips.

_Oh._

Greg stretched sideways to grab some lube, and when everything was wet and ready he pressed his face to Mycroft's hair. "Yes?" His answer came in the form of Mycroft silently reaching back and grabbing his hip, and Greg took that as a signal to begin.

Sixty-nine was all well and good, and deep throating was excellent, but neither of them made Greg go mindless the way they did Mycroft. This, on the other hand…this had rapidly become one of his favourite positions ever. He slid one arm under Mycroft's body to pull in across his ribs, aimed his cock in between Mycroft's thighs near the crack of his arse, and thrust.

He shoved and grunted, gnawing on Mycroft's shoulder, enjoying the tenderness underneath his teeth, enjoying how its vulnerability made his heart ache with affection. Trapped against Mycroft's back, Greg's noises vibrated in his chest and throat and mouth. He revelled at how Mycroft met him thrust for thrust, pushing against the bed to equal Greg's forward force. Mycroft's thighs began to shake with the strain of holding them so tightly closed.

After a while, Greg lost track of everything but plateau of bliss and the rhythmic, wet slap of their skin. They both dripped with sweat. He began to lose coherency, fancying he could meld their bodies together if only he pushed hard enough or fast enough. As adoration twisted him, he pressed his forehead to Mycroft's shoulder and dug his fingers into his hip. It became even harder to breathe. Maybe between the wetness and the friction and the burn flaring hotter in Greg's muscles, they would merge into one and this beauty would never have to end.

The thought rose unbidden through the foggy miles of Greg's subconscious to present itself front and centre. Plain. Unambiguous.

_I love you._

He grit his teeth and keened instead of saying the words.

Greg _loved_. And it wasn't a pretty love. It was vehement, violent, harsh, like coarse salt rubbed vigorously on a wound. It felt as though he were being scrubbed clean. All his past was being abraded away, cell by cell. It wasn't _romantic_. It wasn't soft rose petals and perfume. It was clutching with bloodied fingernails, and a lack of air, and Greg felt his chest squeeze tighter.

His other arm had gone numb, but the pleasure between his legs was extraordinary; it was the brightest, most shocking light, something endless and stellar, and it built and built and built until the dense light exploded.

It was as close to a full-body orgasm as he'd ever had. Control gone, he jittered and shook, verbalising nonsensically, twitching from head to toe. Balls, arse, thighs. Spasming. Pulsing. Lost in it. For an eternity, all he could do was feel.

And then just like that, the climax dropped away.

Emptied, Greg couldn't move when Mycroft rolled out of his arms and flopped face-first into the pillow. He lost track of time while they breathed and floated in their separate floods of hormones. Greg's skin buzzed.

At some point in the haze Mycroft had flipped onto his back, and Greg pried his eyes open to watch him doze away his post-coital lethargy, for the moment unconcerned by whatever had been plaguing him. Face slack, he tilted his head and exposed his neck to the room. The line of his jaw looked remarkably fragile. Vulnerable. Mycroft looked so beautiful just then, so relaxed in his skin, so trusting, so quietly alive. Love expanded in Greg's chest, becoming too large to fit. He clenched his jaw against the pain and stared, his heart pounding. Greg longed to grab him and hold on, but managed to keep his hands to himself.

_I love you._

The world hadn't stopped at the revelation. It didn't even slow.

Mycroft's eyes opened and focused unerringly on Greg's face. He smiled, just a little. "Hello," he said.

"Hi," Greg rasped.

Mycroft reached an arm out toward him, and, relieved, Greg rolled into his side to press his face against Mycroft's neck and breathe him in. Immediately Mycroft wrapped himself round Greg and tucked his own face against Greg's shoulder. His breath was hot and quick. _Are you okay?_ Greg wanted to ask, but he knew the answer. No, he was not okay. Try as he might, Greg couldn't erase whatever had happened to Mycroft over the last few days. All he could do was hold him, and hope that whatever was bothering Mycroft would be easier with time.

Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft's ribs. _I love you._

This would have to be enough.

* * *

They curled up in bed again after a pair of showers and after clearing away the remains of their meal.

"Better?" asked Greg.

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

"Not only yours."

Greg pressed half a laugh against the back Mycroft's shoulder. He was face down, arms round his pillow, and Greg was snugged up against his side. His throat was going to be a bit sore at some point, but for the moment everything was lovely. He felt Mycroft sigh. "You're sure?"

"Quite. Very good." Apparently so; it sounded as if he were already dozing off. "Saved me."

"Bollocks," Greg said, but love was hot and expansive in his chest. With no fear, and no surprise, the recognition of his own feelings felt more like relief than anything else. Little wonder he had been mistaking it for something else all this time; it didn't look anything like what he'd come to expect. It had snuck up on him in the guise of passion and lust, but now that Greg could see it he couldn't _unsee_ it.

_I love you._

Hot on the heels of the first revelation was a second: Mycroft didn't do things to be kind. He did things because he wanted to. When he'd offered to buy Greg a tuxedo, he did so because he wanted to do it. For whatever reason, altruistic or otherwise, he wanted Greg with him and he was willing to pay for it to happen. It would be churlish to deny it to him for no other reason than…what? Pride? Embarrassment? Fear? Stubbornness? Floating in the post-coital haze, none of those reasons seemed relevant. If Mycroft wanted to share this experience with Greg, Greg wanted to share it right back. It certainly didn't merit throwing the offer back in his face.

Besides which: the idea of drinking champagne with a Mycroft Holmes in formalwear was _awfully_ compelling.

After a few minutes of quiet, Greg murmured, "I'm inclined to accept your offer."

"Mm?"

"The tux."

Eyes closed, Mycroft smiled a sleepy smile. "I'm very glad."

"What do I have to do?"

"Phone the shop. They're expecting you."

"You were that confident I'd say yes?"

"It seemed wiser to be prepared than the alternative."

Greg licked his lips. His heart thundered. "You know I'm going to owe you big time."

"Nonsense."

"Yes."

The shoulders underneath Greg's arm tightened momentarily. "Please don't make it sound so mercenary."

"Huh?"

"Tux in exchange for rescuing me."

"Is that what I said?"

"I did need you tonight. I didn't want to… And you were perfect. My brain was… You were my saviour. But I would help find you a suitable tuxedo regardless. Mmm…you will look incredibly handsome."

Greg decided that Mycroft was already half asleep and dream-talking. On the other hand, he also desperately wanted to see the expression on Mycroft's face the first time he walked out wearing the tuxedo: jaw dropped, speechless with astonishment. He wanted to knock his socks off. And if dream-talking Mycroft were telling the truth, he might have half a chance of succeeding. "Then yes, I definitely accept."

Mycroft muttered, "There's something I've been making."

"Making?" Greg said, sideswiped by the change in topic.

"Painting."

"Ah."

"It's coming along."

"Do I get to see it?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Good, then." Greg kissed his shoulder again. "I look forward to it."

"Mmm." They drifted into silence, and Mycroft's breath began to slow further.

"Go to sleep. Sweet dreams." _I love you._ As Greg contemplated the exhausted, trusting body in his arms, his throat tightened so hard it hurt. His eyes fell closed as he stroked his fingers through Mycroft's hair. Mycroft made a tiny noise of pleasure.

The last words Greg had spoken echoed in the air, spinning up a tune in his head. He pressed his mouth to Mycroft's shoulder and hummed the first verse, still playing with his hair. Mycroft eased out a high, quiet sound, almost pained, and his fingers twitched. Greg took that for protest and stopped humming, but the song still spun round and round, relentless. Eyes closed and slipping into sleep, feeling that for one perfect moment everything was right with the world, he whisper-sang into the dark.

_Stars fading but I linger on dear,_  
_still craving your kiss._  
_I'm longing to linger till dawn dear,_  
_just saying this._

_Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you._  
_Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you._  
_But in your dreams whatever they be,_  
_dream a little dream of me._

* * *

When Greg awoke, Mycroft was gone as usual. But there was a still-hot cup of coffee on the bedside table, and alongside it a slip of paper with one word:

_Saviour._

Greg's throat clenched. He pressed his face hard against the pillow and tried to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He looked at Mycroft's beloved, familiar face. Even in this context—in the dark at the edge of a car park, exhausted at the end of a work day, buttoned-up and socked down—his beauty made Greg's spine ease._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and WearItCounts, the ones who make sure I only cross the "i"s and dot the "t"s if I mean to.

At lunchtime, Greg went for his first tux fitting.

And the shop wasn't at all what he'd expected.

For one, they'd offered him a beer the moment he stepped through to the back, and for another, there wasn't a dusty relic or taciturn grey-haired gentleman in the place. Apart from himself, that is.

He stood patiently, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth as an unfamiliar man touched him in unaccustomed places, and he wished he'd taken them up on their offer for a drink. Much as he appreciated that Mycroft must have chosen this place not only for its quality but for its relaxed atmosphere, there was a handsome young thing called Jeremy digging a tape measure into places Greg would rather he not dig, and he could have used some liquid relaxation. He tried not to glimpse himself in the mirror. He failed. He sucked in his gut.

"Oh stop," Jeremy chided from at his feet. Greg set his jaw as he felt hands deal with a tape measure at his inseam. "You're so like my husband. Christ, the man exercises five days a week and cut out sugar, but he's still afraid he's going to seed at the ripe age of 34. I told him, he doesn't have to play the game anymore. I'm not going anywhere. But you know how it is, still of that club mindset. Cult of youth. Old habits die hard, and that sort of thing."

Greg only vaguely knew what he was talking about, but he still nodded. He was too sidetracked to do much else. The night before flickered through his mind in strobing flashes of light and colour. And then a memory came through: nebulous. Vague.

_The fog of sleep drifted sideways just far enough to reveal touch. Taste. A sensation of heat. Lethargy dragging his bones down through the bed. Weight between his legs, shifting slowly. A hand stuttering down his back, grasping the meat of his hip, scraping gently in rhythm with the push-push-push of languid kisses. Leaning sideways, and a body following him over. More kissing. More clutching. Heartbeats. Breath. An infinite flow of desire back and forth, bedclothes cocooning them in a warm, pre-dawn connection. And then the fog again, rising to wrap him in a gentle unconsciousness._

It was an intangible moment of the dark just before dawn; they must have found each other in sleep for more kissing. There was something else there, too, something that tugged at the edges and begged to come clear, but the more he reached for it the further away it danced. Still, one thing remained certain, an indelible mark he could never again forget:

He was in love.

No vagueness about it.

"Feet a bit closer together?" said Jeremy. "Right, that's good. What was I saying? Oh right, old habits. But then—We have to buy a new refrigerator, yeah? So we went round to a few places, getting prices, and he says—I shit you not—he says 'why don't we get one of these full-size jobs'? Us? With that kitchen? Where would it fit? We'd have to squeeze past it to get to where the dog food lives." Jeremy shook his head. "Arms out from your sides. It's like he has no perspective on change. What's changing, and what's not, and when consistency is a godsend. Reliability, you know? Stability."

Greg was straining for the other part of that memory; apparently he'd fallen asleep, then awoke kissing Mycroft, then fallen asleep again. And then woke once more when Mycroft was gone. But there was something else. Something he couldn't quite remember.

He didn't manage to put his finger on it before the measurement portion of the event was over. It was sooner than he'd expected; either Jeremy was very good at his job, or Greg had gone into a fugue state that had erased hours of his life. It was the former, obviously, but it certainly felt like the latter. And the constant memory of Mycroft's hands wasn't helping him stay in the here and now; it seemed as if he could still feel Mycroft's body against his own, and he kept losing himself to reverie while he stood and breathed and ached for more. To have someone else touching him was, honestly, a bit jangling without mentally wandering off for a while.

Jeremy finished entering some data into the computer and trilled him a goodbye, bouncing his way into the back room. Greg shook his head and blew out a breath. He was exhausted. As he got dressed, his joints felt like marmalade.

"He can be a bit of a puppy," said Jason, the owner, coming in from the front foyer once Greg was done. He held out one solid hand to welcome Greg again. "But he's got an attention to detail that can't be beat. I learned long ago to embrace the enthusiasm for the sake of his work. So how are you doing? Can I get you something? Beer? Coffee? You look a bit…overwhelmed."

"No. No, I'm fine."

"Great. Well, I'm going to go get a refill on my water, and then I'll be back in to discuss what we're going to be putting together for you. Sound good?"

He gave Greg a warm smile and disappeared, and Greg took the opportunity to catch his breath. Going back to work to look at crime scene photos might be soothing after this. At least then he could mull over last night's revelation in peace.

"So. Was there anything specific you had in mind?" Jason asked when he came back into the room.

Greg shook his head, at a loss for ideas and for words. "I don't have a clue."

Jason shrugged it off. "No matter. I can just look up what Mr Holmes said he was going to be wearing, and we can work from that. I don't want you two to look _too_ similar."

Just those two facts were enough to short-circuit Greg's brain for a stuttering moment. "Sorry…you've talked to Mycroft? You know what Mycroft is wearing?"

"Of course." Jason furrowed his brow. "He's the one who made the appointment."

"He didn't…have his assistant do it?"

"…No. I spoke to him myself. I don't know him personally, but the gentleman who owned this place before me had worked with him. He seems very nice. We had a pleasant conversation."

"Yeah, he can be charming when he wants to be," Greg said, distracted. Jason had spoken with Mycroft. Mycroft, the man Greg had lain in bed with last night, overwhelmed with love. Jason probably had certain mental images of what they got up to behind closed doors, and regardless whether he was correct or not, 'being out' had gone from theoretical to distressingly real. 

"Excellent," said Jason, so dry Greg wondered why he didn't take a drink from his very fashionable purple water bottle. "Well, let me pull up a few patterns and we can have a bit of a discussion.” He reached under the desk and extracted an iPad. "Have a seat. This will only take a moment."

* * *

There weren't as many options for tuxes as there always seemed to be for women's clothing, but any choices were too many when faced with the possibility of looking like a moron in front of The Great And The Good.

"You'll look 100%, I promise," Jason assured him for the twentieth time. "This is a conservative occasion, I was told, but even within those constraints we can make a few deviations. Are you a satin or a grosgrain sort of man?" Jason looked at his face, then shook the question away. "I'm so sorry. I'll eventually remember to stop asking, I promise. It's just that usually guys with your look know precisely how they want to present themselves."

"Guys with my…look."

"You know." Jason loosely gestured at him as he sipped some water. "Handsome."

Greg snorted. "I beg your pardon?"

"You don't often get to your age and with that face without having an idea how best to show it off."

"I… I just… _What._ "

"No strong opinions. Noted."

"Wait, go back to the handsome thing." Greg forced a nervous laugh.

"No, too late, we've moved on. Besoms and pleats. Let's make some choices."

This was going to be both more difficult and more pleasant than he'd thought.

* * *

At the Yard later that afternoon, Greg went to get some coffee. When he came back, Hopkins was lingering at his office door.

"So, you know how you said you sometimes play football after work?" he said. Greg didn't know where this conversation was going, and the uncertainty made him nervous. "Were you going today?"

"I dunno, it's pretty cold. Why?" Greg leaned on the door frame and tried not to spill coffee all over himself.

Hopkins gave him a shy look. It sat strangely on his face. "My mum has Neesie, and I was hoping you might introduce me to your team."

Which made sense; after all, one of the first things he'd thought about Hopkins was that he looked like a football player. "Do you have your kit with you?"

He did, and they made plans to meet at Greg's office at the end of the day. But once Hopkins had gone Greg was overcome by a flush of nerves; ordinarily, he tried to keep his work life separate from his outside life, but in one brief conversation he'd completely cocked that up. He hoped he wouldn't have cause to regret it.

* * *

When the two of them arrived at the pitch, the younger lads were circled round in a quietly fevered excitation.

"What's up?" Greg said, zipping his fleece to ward off the chill.

"Geoffrey is missing," said Nathan, who was ruffling his fair hair in both hands as if he would pull it out.

"It's weird as hell, Greg," said Colin. "Listen to this. We were at the pub last night, right? And he's all sidetracked, but whatever, and then he leaves early. We all head home, and then I realise my boots were in his car. I was going to have a kick-about today at lunch, so I stop by his place, but his flatmate says he's left, which is completely bizarre. He told me he'd planned a quiet night in after he got home.

"But his flatmate then says that soon after he got there he left again, and he didn't say goodbye. He didn't take his mobile, either, which explains why he hasn't returned my phone calls or texts. So it seems like something must have happened, yeah? His wallet was gone, but not his mobile."

"Maybe he just forgot it," Greg said. "In his hurry."

"That phone was _attached_ to him," Colin said dubiously. "We texted constantly. He wouldn't have just left it unless there was a reason."

"And now you're worried…"

"Because he didn't show up," said Colin. "Left in a hurry, no phone calls, no texts, nothing. And now he's not here. Something's up, and I'm extremely fucking worried."

"You should really phone the police," Greg said. "File a—"

"NO," Colin said, then looked disconcerted at the vehemence of it. "No, I just…" He gave Greg and Hopkins a sheepish look. "He hates when people make a fuss."

"But if you're really worried—"

"Can't you just look into it off the books? I mean, it's probably too early to file something officially, right? Don't you have to wait three days?"

Greg huffed a laugh. "Only in films."

"So please?" Colin turned a doe-eyed expression on them. He looked incredibly young all of a sudden. Barely older than Sharon. "Can we just…look into it? I promise, I'll call the police officially if we need to."

"That's not really…how it…works…" Greg said, and cast a sidelong look at Hopkins. All he could think about was sailing too close to the wind, looking into cases for Mycroft in the early days before they had a relationship. He wasn't sure he was willing to risk it. But the expression on Colin's face was so worried, and Greg knew that in his position he'd be concerned, too.

Greg decided he could probably give it a shot. Besides, it might get him out of practice; he wasn't looking forward to finding out just how much better a player Hopkins was than he was. And it really was fucking _freezing_ out there. "Fine. But at the first sign of trouble, you're calling the station."

Colin clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you. Thank you _so_ much."

* * *

The three of them—Greg, Hopkins, and Colin—abandoned the rest of the team to head for Geoffrey's flat. Hopkins whistled as they pulled onto the grounds of a rambling, old estate.

"This is where he lives?" he said.

Colin pointed, directing Greg to an outbuilding just off the main drive, gravel crunching under their tyres. "Geoffrey's parents are the Mount-Jameses. They're some sort of shipping magnates or whatever."

"Shipping magnates?" Greg said.

He shrugged, spots of pink blooming on his cheeks. "Actually, I don't really know what they do. Geoffrey told me once, but I forgot. 'Shipping magnates' is a phrase I got off the telly. Sorry."

Greg stifled a smile. "Well, if it becomes important we can look it up."

The flatmate who answered the door was a large bloke, his reddish-brown hair in disarray and his tartan shirt untucked. "Hey Colin."

"Any sign of Geoffrey yet?"

"Nope."

"This is Greg and…" Colin looked at Hopkins apologetically. "Sorry, I forgot."

"Hopkins. But call me Sam. You too," he added, looking at Greg.

Greg wasn't sure he would.

"Sam, this is Ben," said Colin as they shook hands. "They're giving me a hand looking for him. Can we come in?"

"Of course," Ben said, and scanned a quick eye across the grounds before letting them inside. "So yeah," he said, once the door was shut, and he'd combed his fingers through his hair, leaving it more messy than it had been. "Geoffrey hasn't been back since I told you he left, Colin."

"And he only took his knapsack?" Greg asked.

"As far as I can tell. Left his mobile, though. That's weird."

"So we've been told," Hopkins said. "Can we see it?"

Ben frowned, then shrugged. "I don't see why not." He led them into the kitchen, where he picked up the phone from the table and handed it to Hopkins.

"He'd left it right here?" said Greg.

"Yeah," said Ben, and blew out a breath. "This whole thing is bizarre. He's usually real good about telling me if he's leaving late at night, some superstition about being accountable that his parents drilled into him, so this is really weird."

"Has he done this before?" Greg said.

"Not that I know of," Ben said, frowning. "I mean, lately he's been gone a lot, but he's always at the lab. He tells me where he is. This time…" He shrugged. "Not so much."

"Anything useful?" Greg asked Hopkins.

"Only thing I'm seeing is a message to an unlisted number." Hopkins turned the phone so Greg could read it: `I will meet you there. Hope it's not too late.` "What the hell does that mean?" he said.

Colin shrugged, and Greg frowned. "Clearly we need to find out what that number is."

"Hold up." Hopkins handed Geoffrey's mobile to Greg and pulled out his own, a shiny, top-of-the-line model over which his thumbs blurred. For a moment, Greg felt extremely old. "Simple reverse lookup doesn't yield anything," said Hopkins. "Not the one on the web, anyway."

"And I still don't want to go through work. Yet," said Greg, reminded again that they weren't meant to be doing this at all. There was a simple solution to this, one that wouldn't likely take much time at all, and wouldn't cause him to lose face. 

He was just a little nervous about talking to the person at the other end of the line. _Saviour_ , the note had said, and he still thrilled at the thought of it.

He took a deep breath.

"Hold on," he said, and turned his back to the room. Heart thundering, he dialled.

"Hello," Mycroft said when he picked up. "And how was your morning?"

"I need you to look something up for me."

There was a breath of silence. "I see. And what are we looking up?"

"The owner of a phone number. You can do that, right?"

When Mycroft spoke, he seemed only slightly confused. "Easily. Tell me the number, please?"

Greg snapped his fingers for the mobile, and when Hopkins handed it to him he read it out. Mycroft returned an answer immediately.

"It's for a disposable mobile phone, I'm afraid. But if you'd like, I can triangulate—"

"No, not yet," Greg said. He sighed. "I mean, yes. If you could get me any more details…"

"It would be my pleasure." It sounded as if that were true, too. "Is there a particular reason for the secrecy?"

"You know that thing I'm not meant to do anymore? I'm doing that."

"And you don't want to let the Met know you're working on this case."

"Exactly."

"Well, you know I'm always happy to be the one you turn to."

Greg burned with a mix of affection and embarrassment. He felt the weight of three separate pairs of eyes on his back when he said, "Erm. I need to…go."

"Yes, of course. It was nice to speak to you, Inspector."

Whenever Mycroft fell back into formality within the context of work, it never failed to make Greg's stomach flutter. Nostalgia was a ridiculous thing. "Same."

"When I have further details, I'll—"

"Phone me, please." Greg smiled into the middle distance. He felt overwarm.

"Gladly."

"Bye." Greg took a moment to compose his features before he turned round, but even still Hopkins gave him a strange, suspicious look.

"What's the word?" he said.

Greg hoped he wasn't blushing. "Burner. No details, yet, but he's pulling them up. It'll take some time."

"Well…" Hopkins looked sidelong at him. "In the meantime, Ben, do you think Geoffrey would mind if we took a look in his room?"

* * *

The only thing they found which raised any curiosity was a scrawled note bearing a series of figures which looked like dates, with a row of numbers after each. It was on the letterhead of a ph.d who—according to the internet—was a professor at Imperial College.

"Is Geoffrey ill?" Greg furrowed his brow at the paper.

"No, he was fine. In the peak of health. Super fit," said Colin, who then seemed to realise what he'd said. He flushed.

Hopkins didn't notice. "Doctor doesn't necessarily mean medical," he said.

"Could be for work," Ben said, but he didn't sound convinced. "But that's not really his area."

"Why?" said Hopkins.

"Well Geoffrey is cardiology, like me. That doctor isn't. I think she's…" Ben screwed up his face. "Neuroscience? Maybe?"

"Maybe he just picked up this letterhead somewhere," Colin said.

They all stared at the paper in thought.

"Guess we should check out…" Greg read the name off the paper. "Professor Leslie Armstrong."

"It's getting late. Do you think she's still at her office?"

Greg looked at his watch. "We might as well try."

* * *

Professor Leslie Armstrong was a tall, willowy blonde woman with a stern expression and a rather resolute opinion of privacy.

"If you think I'm about to tell you about what, if anything, I've discussed with Mr Mount-James, without any clue what business you have in his affairs besides 'we're looking for him', you're _sorely_ mistaken."

"Listen," Greg said, trying for the verbal equivalent of snaking his foot in the door, "All we want to know is if you were the one who wrote this." He held out the note he'd managed to pry out of Colin's hands before they left him in the car; it seemed more likely they'd get an answer if they provided a professional front, so they convinced him to stay outside.

She took it, and her expression became, if possible, even darker. "Where did you get this?"

"It was in—"

"This is unbelievable." She folded it up neatly and tucked it into her pocket. "How dare you go through his things."

"I'd like that back, please."

"I bet you would."

She stared him down, and Greg didn't really feel he had any choice. "Professor Armstrong, you can't simply pocket evidence in a police investigation."

Her eyes widened, but she wasn't impressed. It was more sarcastic than anything else. "Oh, you're police now."

Greg sighed and pulled out his badge. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. May I please have that paper back now, ma'am. I'm looking into the disappearance of Geoffrey Mount-James, and that's evidence."

"So you had a warrant, then."

"Well, Mount-James's flatmate was helping us—"

"That's just fantastic," she spat. "That's the trouble with governmental agencies nowadays, isn't it? Sticking their noses in where they don't belong, tapping the phone calls of private citizens, covering things over that ought not be covered over, and exploiting the privacy of private citizens who have the right to be left alone."

"Professor Armstrong." Greg tried not to heave a sigh. "We'd like to keep this quiet—"

"Oh, very good. So would I," she said, but she didn't move to produce the note from her pocket. Rather, she crossed her arms over her chest and dug in.

"We just want to find out what happened to Geoffrey."

"I'm afraid I can't help you."

"We _can_ have you charged with perverting the course of justice."

"I'm sure he's fine."

" _I'm sure he's fine?_ "

"Yes."

"Professor…"

"Thank you, Professor," said Hopkins, and he ushered Greg out by the elbow.

Greg went along only because instinct told him Hopkins was right, but that didn't quell the burn of indignation in his chest. Colin's worry was contagious; between Geoffrey's absence, Armstrong's suspicious behaviour, and Greg's propensity to worry himself, he was losing his professional cool faster than he should have. Nonetheless, he let himself be led out to the car park.

"I know you don't want to call her bluff," said Hopkins. "Why don't we back down and try a different tack?"

"I don't suppose you had anything in mind."

"Not yet. But give me a few minutes, and I'm sure I'll think of something."

Greg was unable to squash a tiny smile in the face of Hopkins's bright-eyed optimism. "Fine," he said. "Find me a plan."

Across the way, Greg suddenly noticed the sheen of a familiar black car parked in the spill of a streetlamp. His smile broadened. "And here's the rest of our info," he said, as Mycroft poured himself out of the car and strode across to them. He seemed to float from the hips, his head held high enough to provide an adequate vantagepoint for his own condescension.

Greg wanted to snog him.

Mycroft assessed Hopkins in one quick, undoubtedly-thorough glance and spoke to Greg. "Good evening."

It was already better. "Hello, there."

"I have the files you wanted."

"That was fast." Greg couldn't wipe the smile off his face. Mycroft's crisp suit and stupid, expensive overcoat were a sight for sore eyes.

"Yes, well. It was not a…difficult assignment."

They stared at each other to the exclusion of all else, and Hopkins cleared his throat. "Er, Detective Inspector Sam Hopkins." He held out his hand. Until that moment, Greg hadn't realised that he and Hopkins were of a height.

There was a brief hesitation, then Mycroft shook with him. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Thanks for getting us this info."

"Er…" Mycroft glanced at Greg. "Yes."

Internally, Greg flailed at how to introduce him. "Mycroft is…Mycroft is Sherlock Holmes's brother." Greg's heart was suddenly pounding in his throat, and he was having trouble drawing enough breath. It felt like the cowardly way to explain it, but just earlier that day he'd had concerns about combining his work and private life by bringing Hopkins to football practice. It was a bit more than he was ready for to introduce him to his lover. Greg didn't know what he'd been thinking, bringing Mycroft in like this. It was incredibly poor planning.

Mycroft, to his credit, rolled with it. "I regret you've had the displeasure."

Hopkins laughed broadly. "Not yet, but I hear he's a piece of work. There's a story going round that—"

"Hey, do you mind giving us a moment?" Greg cut in, then steered Mycroft a few yards into the deepest darkness at the edge of the car park and leaned in close. He took in a delicious lungful of Mycroft's aftershave. "Sorry. I'm still not sure what term for us to use. And with whom."

"I will be led by you." Finally, Greg's eyes adjusted to reveal Mycroft's face not a foot away from his. Mycroft licked his lips, and the urge to kiss him was overwhelming.

Greg stepped back. "Listen, what are you doing now? Are you free?"

An expression of regret settled over Mycroft's features. "Alas, I have a phone meeting in an hour."

"Can you… Maybe you could come over, and I'll let you use the bedroom for privacy?"

"Enticing, but that's not going to work this time, I'm afraid."

"Damn." Greg sighed, and Mycroft looked sidelong at Hopkins for a moment. Colin was climbing out of the car to join him.

"Well. He’s certainly…handsome."

Greg snorted. He didn't suspect Mycroft was talking about Colin. "You noticed that, huh?"

"I’ve got _eyes_."

"I didn’t think you noticed that sort of thing."

"Of course I do."

"You just don’t act on it."

Mycroft pinned him with a look of startling intensity. "I did, once."

"…Oh." The expression of desire, the warmth in Mycroft's gaze, set his pulse thundering. The moment lay heavy around them, and Greg fancied his heart was beating so loudly that Colin and Hopkins could hear it. The fact that Greg wasn't going to get to drag Mycroft home and into bed was physically painful. He broke the tension, afraid what he might do to him otherwise. "And good job you did."

Mycroft accepted the softening moment with a sniff of a laugh. "I agree." He swallowed, and Greg detected a curious look in his eyes. There was a flare of emotion, and then it was shuttered completely away.

The look sparked a memory. A dream, just a flash of it, and with it the clarity of what Greg had been trying to remember all day:

_His office, midnight. Quiet in the corridor, and darkness, with a light swinging in the distance. Fighting desperately to get work done against the clock, and the sense of time passing quicker than he could run. And running, down the corridor toward the front doors, running for miles, knowing that Mycroft was waiting outside for him. No window, and no door, and no end in sight. The sense of Mycroft waiting grew broader and stronger and louder, surrounding him, kindling panic in a feedback loop of sprinting-need-worry-hurry-sprinting. Greg knew the moment Mycroft gave up; the worry sank into desolation. Outside on the street Mycroft turned away. Greg reached toward nothing. "I love you," he shouted, but still Mycroft disappeared. And then they were kissing, kissing harder than Greg had any right to expect, out there on the walk in front of the Met. And Greg didn't care who saw, because he'd found him. He'd finally caught up._

Greg assumed that's when he'd woken up kissing Mycroft, and now he thought he understood why he'd felt the need for affirmation.

He looked at Mycroft's beloved, familiar face. Even in this context—in the dark at the edge of a car park, exhausted at the end of a work day, buttoned-up and socked down—his beauty made Greg's spine ease.

"We should…" He tilted his head toward Hopkins and Colin, who were in a conversation of their own. Hopkins's laughter rang out in the mostly-empty car park.

"Of course." Mycroft stepped away, and Greg heard him take a deep breath. "Inspector Hopkins. Mr Wainwright. Have a delightful evening."

"You're not going to join us?" said Hopkins.

"In your quest?" The corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked. "I like to leave that sort of activity to Gregory." He headed for his car, and Greg walked with him.

Instead of stroking his back, Greg curled his hand into a fist. "I'll talk to you later?"

There was a moment before Mycroft answered. "Good luck with your case," he said, then ducked into his car.

Greg reluctantly shut the door and stepped back to wave through the blacked windows. The car drove off, and Greg turned to address the two who remained.

"The phone was Armstrong's," said Hopkins, who had been paging through the file.

"Of course it was," Greg said.

"She said he was fine, so I bet she knows something."

"Clearly."

Hopkins looked up at him, expression opaque. "Mycroft Holmes, hm?"

"…Yes?"

"You always phone up Sherlock's brother when you need this sort of data?"

"Well. Sometimes." Greg tried to shrug it off.

"And he has it at hand?"

"Often."

"And he's willing to fork it over?"

"…Er. Seldom."

"So we got lucky this time?"

Greg realised he'd been phoning up Mycroft for information an awful lot recently. He hoped that wouldn't come back to bite him in the arse, but it's not as if he didn't know _why_ he was doing it. "Looks like."

"Hm." Hopkins looked down and the file and nodded. "I see."

After a beat, Greg cleared his throat. He didn't know Hopkins well enough to read what he wasn't saying.

"How did he know who I am?" said Colin.

Greg tried not to snort. "He just does."

"For the same reasons he can hand over random files about professors and has a more robust reverse telephone lookup than the web?" Hopkins said.

"Something like that."

"Creepy," said Colin.

"Something like that." Greg tried—and failed—not to feel pride.

Colin said, "So what now?"

"Now," said Hopkins, settling his coat round his shoulders, "I keep an eye on Armstrong, and you two go home."

"But that doesn't make any sense." Greg scrunched up his face. "You have a kid. I've got…er. No place to be. I'll keep an eye on her."

"Listen, the Grange case isn't going anywhere fast until we find Neligan. You have a ton of paperwork to catch up on, I'm sure."

"Yeah, but—"

"Sam and I will keep a lookout," Colin chimed in, his face bright. "We've got it."

Suspicious, or at least wary, Greg looked between the two of them. "…Okay. Sure. I'll, er, I'll check in with you in the morning, then."

"Sounds good," said Hopkins.

"Wait." Greg stopped before he get into the car. "You're plan to tail her all night? How?"

Hopkins looked at him like he was a complete moron. "I've always wanted to jump into a cab and say 'follow that car.'"

"You know it doesn't work like it does on the television, right?"

"Go away." Hopkins gave him a grin that had way too much energy behind it for the late hour. Greg left him and Colin bickering about whether Colin should stay while Hopkins went to get his vehicle, and Greg washed his hands of the matter.

For the night, at any rate.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If he felt he had to hide their relationship from Hopkins, what business did he have going with Mycroft to the gala? He was going to have to develop some testicular fortitude, sooner or later._
> 
> But for now, he could deflect with the best of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my betas WearItCounts and BakerStMel, who support me in many ways: language, content, and confidence.

A restaurant delivery guy arrived at 8 o'clock the next morning. He tried to hand Greg a white plastic carrier bag.

"Sorry, there's been a mistake," said Greg. "I didn't order anything."

"Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yes."

"No other Detective Inspector Lestrades here?"

"…No."

"Then this is for you."

Suspicion dawned. "What's the name on the ticket?"

"The ticket? Oh, er, it's…" The man paused to pull a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "Monsieur Holmes?"

Greg was confused for a moment. "Monsieur? Oh, _M Holmes_? The letter M?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

He tried not to alarm the delivery man with the dawning sappiness of his smile. "Well, thanks. I'll just…" He fumbled for his wallet, but the man backed away.

"Nah, it's all settled. Don't worry about it."

It seemed more than necessarily honest of him, but then, they _were_ in a police station, and that tended to hold some influence. The man disappeared without anything more than a wave, and Greg was left with a steaming container and an office rapidly filling with the savoury smells of sausage and potatoes. There was a small card tucked into the bag.

_G—_

_If I cannot make you breakfast this morning, at least I can still provide one for you. Alas, that this is not a leisurely morning after an active night. At times my work schedule is more bothersome than usual._

_With affection,_

_M_

Greg pressed his fist against the top of his desk, hard, and swallowed several times. Random acts of romance. He was used to being the one to send the flowers or buy the jewellery, but seldom ever had he been the recipient. For several minutes he deliberated on the perfect response, but couldn't find the words. Finally he settled on

`You are fantastic. Thank you.`

and left it at that. He would just have to show proper appreciation the next time they were together.

* * *

In spite of his lingering swoon about breakfast, Greg was still impatient enough by 11:30am to text Hopkins about the case.

`Any update?`

`Not yet. She's gone to the chemist's and to her office, but she hasn't left for lunch yet. Perhaps she'll take one soon. Starving.`

`Don't want to risk getting lunch?`

`Nothing here but mcdonalds. My body is a temple.`

`I saw you eat two packets of crisps yesterday. One after the other.`

`Prawn cocktail doesn't count. You should know that.`

Greg snorted and tossed his mobile to the side. Perhaps it _would_ be better to leave Hopkins alone. He was a DI and could handle a simple stakeout by himself, and besides which: Armstrong was a neurologist, not a drugs smuggler. Hopkins would be fine.

He texted Mycroft instead.

`Aren't you curious about this case I'm working with Hopkins? It's not official, so the Chief Commissioner won't care if I tell you or not.`

After a few minutes, he realised he hadn't heard from him since his note that morning. All the text communication had been going one way. Mycroft was usually so reliable that the lack of response was a bit worrisome. He tried to shake it off, but not even a trawl through a list of the most recent arrests—small town mayor arrested, of all things, for solicitation; a large and improbable marijuana sting in Oxfordshire; old-school counterfeiting—kept his brain from thinking about Mycroft. Finally, he threw his ballpoint down at his desk and huffed.

He went for a run instead.

* * *

Halfway through, he realised there were still details about Sharon's trip to iron out. He took a break and phoned her while he was thinking about it.

"THREE DAYS." She squealed. "I can't wait."

"You're just looking forward to posh vegan food."

" _Or_ , I could be looking forward to meeting Mr Mycroft…wassisface. Man-Thing. What's his actual last name?"

He braced himself. "Holmes."

"Wait. 'Holmes' as in Sherlock?"

"Er. Yes. 'Holmes' as in Sherlock."

"So he's his…"

"Brother."

There was a silence, full of words.

"Sharon—"

She started laughing. "Oh, I bet that went down well."

"Which part exactly?" he said, slightly relieved.

"I can't imagine Sherlock was happy about you making sloppy-kissy faces with his brother."

"Well, when you put it that way, I'm not too keen on it, either."

"Has he retaliated yet?"

"Well, he _pouted_ …"

"But nothing destructive."

"He's not that bad."

"It's like Stockholm Syndrome with that one."

"Oh my god."

"I think you actually find him entertaining, now. But remember when he used to show up at the back door, high? Wasn't so entertaining _then,_ was he."

For a moment, Greg's heart stopped. "…How the _hell_ did you know that?"

"I was young, Dad, not deaf."

"Did you see him?"

"I used to peek through the bannister."

" _What?!_ "

"To see who was there that late. You never saw me. But I guess that's not a surprise; you were a bit sidetracked at the time. He was like a walking anti-drugs video."

"Oh god. Please change the subject. I need time to process this information."

"What does Man-Thing have to say about that era?"

" _Different_ subject, Sharon."

"I guess that's how you met him?"

" _Sharon_."

She snickered. "Fine. Did you get the cd?"

"Yes I did, thank you. It was good." He was grateful for the thought she'd put into his playlist, but also for the shift in topic. He had to think over a 14-year-old Sharon witnessing Sherlock-the-Addict, if only so that he could have a reasoned discussion with her about it later. "But Biffy Clyro and the Frightened Rabbit sounds like a children's book."

"I don't suppose if I bought you an iPod for Christmas you'd use it."

"I can play music on my phone."

"Yeah, but you _don't_."

"I'm old."

She heaved a sigh that could knock over a car. "Don't I know it."

"Oi, Rude. Leave me my idiosyncrasies."

He could hear her trying not to laugh at him. Fortunately there were actual, concrete things to talk about, and so he let the final details of the trip carry them to safer shores.

* * *

It was a slow afternoon, and in spite of the exercise Greg still grew restless. At last, Hopkins phoned at 1pm.

"We're heading up the M1," Hopkins said. "I just wanted to tell you she's on the move, and I'll let you know the moment I have more information."

"The _moment._ "

"I just said I would, Greg. Jesus."

"Sorry, I'm…" Greg rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm curious, now."

"Me too." Greg heard the smile in Hopkins's voice, then he rang off.

He immediately turned round and texted Mycroft again.

`Incredibly bored. In a holding pattern for two cases, and all I can do is paperwork. I hope your day is going better than mine.`

Greg checked his phone after five minutes, then fifteen, but was sidetracked from text message monitoring when Patel called back to his office to inform him that he had a visitor. For a brief moment of anticipation Greg thought it might be Mycroft with another surprise, but then he heard a familiar voice in the background of the call.

"Show her back," he said with half a sigh.

Mrs Kelkar jumped into her story immediately upon entering the room. She looked much more well-rested than she had been the last time Greg had met with her, and smelled better, too. As it turned out, she was a tidy and immaculately-coiffed woman when she she hadn't spent the night hiding in a rubbish bin.

"I wouldn't have remembered about him, except I was watching a film with my niece last night and something reminded me. There was a man at the house a few weeks ago. White. Tall, thin. Dark auburn-black hair. Hawk nose. Nice clothing." It wasn't until she started describing his glasses that Greg became sure she wasn't talking about Mycroft . "I wasn't meant to be there at that hour, because I usually spend Wednesday afternoons at my sister's after my spin class, but she was feeling poorly so I came home early. When I saw the unfamiliar car in the drive I parked over the road and watched the house."

"That was…good foresight of yours, I'm sure."

"It was."

"So." Greg straightened the stack of papers on his desk in lieu of smiling. "What did you see?"

She didn't appear to notice any change of expression on his face. "He could have just been a visitor, of course, except…well, they didn't have many visitors, and he had two rolling suitcases with him. He was struggling with them, too. The sidewalk needs to be fixed, see, and there's this one spot that's broken with lots of cracks, and when the wheels of the cases caught it was obvious how heavy they were."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I still don't understand what made you think this was suspicious."

"That's not up to me, though, is it?" Mrs Kelkar raised an eyebrow. "I'm just meant to give you all the information, and it's your job to sort through it."

Greg pressed his lips together hard, but still a tiny bit of laugh eked out through his nose. "I thought we were detectives together."

She waved that away. "I realised yesterday that I'm not getting paid, and I need to focus. This new bookshop in Edinburgh won't set up itself, you know."

"I suppose not." Greg considered for a moment that when all this was over he could do worse than to introduce her to Sharon, but then the realisation followed that Sharon was going to be in the States, and he swallowed down a measure of disappointment. "Well, Mrs Kelkar, regardless, I'm hoping you'll work with our police artist to compile a good description of him."

"That's why I'm here." She twisted him a sharp, iron-clad smile that very much reminded him of her first visit. "I do still want these men caught, you know."

* * *

Once he'd passed her off to the artist, Greg flopped down into his seat and scrubbed his hands over his face. He could manage to forget about Sharon for brief swatches of time—larger amounts of time, now that this new thing with Mycroft was keeping him occupied—but her trip to the States was still bothering him. The pang of missing her had already begun, and she hadn't even left yet. Wasn't due to leave for weeks, really. And she was going to be visiting in only a few days.

He pulled out his mobile to text her, but it felt somehow clingy, so instead he texted Mycroft again.

`I still haven't cleared out the guest room for Sharon. I suppose I should do that soon. I'm running out of time. I'm off on Friday, but maybe I can take an early day tomorrow too and knock it out.` Greg scrolled through to look at the last few texts, all from him to Mycroft, and heaved a sigh. Perhaps he was in a meeting. If that were the case, surely he'd have a moment to return Greg's messages at lunch. Greg would just have to be patient.

* * *

But early afternoon rolled past, then mid-afternoon, and Greg had heard nothing. His focus had devolved into a cycle of ten minutes of work and twenty minutes of youtube before Hopkins finally called.

"I need you to get over here. She's at this house in a residential neighbourhood, and there's a van parked outside from some medical supply company, according to the internet. She didn't want me to follow her, though."

"How can you tell?"

"Because she did all the things cop shows tell you will help you avoid a tail."

"Clearly it worked." Hopkins only laughed. "So where are you?"

"Parked around the corner. I'll text you the address. Get over here as soon as you can?"

Greg grinned in relief. "Be right there." He stabbed the phone off and stretched, a grin splitting his face ear to ear. _Finally._

* * *

Hopkins's car was pulled up on a side street, and he waved Greg over as soon as he arrived.

"She left for a few minutes to go into the Tesco, but she came back immediately," Hopkins said without preamble as Greg climbed into the passenger side. 

He blinked into the back seat. Then stopped. "Colin? What are you doing back there?"

"Hopkins said I had to get in back so you could sit in front."

"No, I mean…" Greg shot a pointed look in Hopkins's direction. "I mean, how did you know we were here?"

"Hopkins invited me along this morning."

"You've been here all day?"

"Yeah." Colin frowned. "You didn't know?"

"I did not, no."

"It's not an official investigation," Hopkins said.

He'd said 'we' earlier, sure, but for some reason Greg had thought that meant the two actual police, in a rhetorical sense. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, fine. Fine. That's fine. What did she buy at Tesco?"

"Looked like an ice cream and a lemonade. Probably nothing important."

"Is she alone in the house?"

"Can't tell. She unlocked the door with a key and let herself in."

"How long have you two been here?"

"We've all been here about an hour now."

"Police work is _amazing_ ," Colin said.

 _You just say that because you haven't spent all day filling in forms,_ Greg thought, and was about to ask if they'd checked out the back of the house, but just then there was movement at the front door. A familiar young man in his early twenties with floppy, dark brown hair and a crisp shirt came out and strode purposefully toward the back of the van.

"Geoffrey!" Colin squealed.

 _Oh dear god._ "Colin, don't move. We don't know what they're doing."

"Not kidnapped, I guess," said Hopkins.

"Apparently not."

"Probably working together?"

"He's cardiology, she's neuroscience. Maybe something illegal?"

"Well, they're in a common bungalow with a transit van parked in front. It's probably not completely— _Colin!_ "

The door slammed, and Colin pelted round the corner and toward the house. Over the hedgerows Greg saw Geoffrey's eyes go wide. "Jesus fucking chr— You just _had_ to invite him along," Greg said, scrambling out of the car.

"I didn't know he was going make a fucking break for it," Hopkins said, and they ran after him.

Geoffrey was stood still in the middle of the drive as if caught in the headlamps. "What the fuck? Colin? Greg?" He stared at Greg and Hopkins as they came trotting up. "Who the hell are you?" he said to Hopkins.

"They were helping me find you," Colin cut in. "Why haven't you been answering my calls? I've been worried sick."

"I'm sorry," said Geoffrey, sounding sincere, then he gave both Hopkins and Greg the once-over. "It's been— I've been—" He looked incredibly defeated.

"What's wrong?" Colin murmured. Geoffrey bit his lip, and Greg became aware that he was close to tears. "Oh, _fuck it_ ," Colin said, and stepped in to pull Geoffrey into a massive bear hug.

Geoffrey startled at the contact, but after a moment he returned the embrace. His knuckles turned white in the back of Colin's coat, and he pressed his face into Colin's neck. Greg felt that he was intruding on something private.

After a moment, Geoffrey slipped out of Colin's arms and scrubbed his sleeve across his face. "You may as well come in, now you're here." He picked up the plastic bag he'd pulled from the van and headed for the house, and they all three trailed him inside.

The interior had the dark, antiseptic smell of a hospital, and the front room looked like a typical house with one exception: in lieu of a sofa, in front of the television was an adjustable hospital bed, and in the bed was a smiling, but obviously very ill, young man. His smile faltered when he noticed the three men following Colin into the house. "Babe, what's going on?" he rasped.

"These are friends of mine from football. They just wanted to, er. Check up on me."

"That's nice of them."

Geoffrey went to his side, pulled two IV drip bags from the plastic bag, and started fiddling with the taps attached to the man in the bed. "Meet, er. Robert. Robert, meet…everyone. Colin, Greg. Greg's friend, I guess."

"Sam," said Greg when Hopkins was slow to respond, and glanced to his side. Hopkins looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "You okay?" he muttered under his breath, but Hopkins only twitched a nod and didn't say a word.

From the back of the house came Armstrong's voice, and it got louder as she approached. "I was thinking for the next dosage we might try—" She stopped short when she realised they weren't alone. "What in the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"They were just worried about me, Leslie," said Geoffrey. "Don't worry about it."

"I _do_ worry about it," she said, her blade-like eyes taking all three of them apart. "I do. Having the police involved is only going to make matters worse. There's no secrecy. There's no…no _discretion_. It's just publicity and photographs and nosy press peering in at the windows and sticking microphones in Geoffrey's face, and this just…this isn't the…" Her screed seemed to stumble when she looked at Robert's pale face. Greg followed her gaze to find him slumping over in the bed. She made as if to rush to his side, but Geoffrey stopped her.

"Just fell asleep," he said quietly, softening her frown.

"If you'll follow me, please," she hissed, and led them to the kitchen. They followed her like ducklings and she shut the door. "Look, I don't know how you found him, but—"

"If I could just interject for a moment," said Greg. "I'm not sure what you think is happening here, but we have no intention of telling the press _anything._ Colin was only worried about his friend, and we agreed to help him find him, and that's it. We're not even here, officially."

"You're not."

"Honestly. We just wanted make sure Geoffrey was okay."

"How can I believe you?"

"Look," cut in Colin. "I know he has a hard time with the press sometimes, but we're being honest with you. I promise. I was just worried about him, is all."

Through the corner of his vision Greg watched Hopkins, who still seemed wildly out of sorts.

"Well." Armstrong flung an arm toward the sitting room. "Clearly he's fine. And now Robert is napping, so if you'd go, that would be appreciated."

"I'm sorry if—" Greg started.

"No, listen to me please," she said, and seemed to sag. "I'm exhausted, and Geoffrey is exhausted. I'm sorry if I misjudged you, but I'm sure you understand. If the press gets word of this, it'll be a media circus. And that's the last thing he needs right now."

"I'm sorry," said Greg, "But we don't even know what's going on."

"His husband is dying," Armstrong said flatly. "I don't think it gets more clear than that."

"But we didn't even—" Greg sighed.

" _Husband?_ " Colin choked out.

"Go, please," said Armstrong. "I don't want anyone to wake Robert up, now he's finally getting some rest."

Greg steered a sputtering Colin out into the sitting room again, and Hopkins wandered mindlessly behind them.

When they entered the room, Geoffrey was reading in a chair beside Robert's bed, the television down at a low murmur. "All right?" he asked, but he didn't take his eyes off Colin's face. He stood and tossed his book onto the chair, then led them to the front door. "Leslie, keep an eye on his levels for a mo'? I'm going to talk to them."

"Out front?" she asked, seeming horrified at the idea.

Geoffrey swallowed. "Well, by this point, there's not a whole lot of long-term risk, is there?" The bald statement of fact seemed to horrify her further, but nonetheless he led the three of them out into the sunshine. Greg took a deep breath, relieved to get the crisp, winter air into his lungs after the stifling warmth and sharp smell of the house.

"He's your _husband_?" Colin said, once they were out. He sounded as if something in him was breaking.

Geoffrey nodded. "Robert and I were married a few months ago. He's one of Armstrong's— _was_ one of Armstrong's students, back when he was still attending university."

"But what… Why…"

"I don't think my family would have been too happy to know of it, do you? And the press would have eaten us alive. Marrying a man with a brain tumour? I don't—" Geoffrey's jaw clenched for a moment before he continued. "I'm not putting him through that, thank you."

"But. You never said."

"I never really needed to." Geoffrey's expression softened when he looked at Colin. "You've been brilliant even without knowing, Colin. Really. It was nice not to have to talk about it all the time. It was… You've been brilliant support."

Colin's hand had crept to his mouth and he looked over it at Geoffrey in horror. "All this time.…"

"I mean it." Geoffrey squeezed Colin's shoulder, then reeled him in for a hug.

Greg decided it was past time for them to leave. "Well," he said, "I think… Yeah, I think we're done here. Colin?"

"You can stay, if you'd like," Geoffrey said to Colin. "Now you know. I mean, I think I'd like you to. You should know Robert. When he wakes for supper we can…"

Colin was nodding. "Okay," he said, sounding a little damp. "Yeah, okay. Sounds…sounds good."

"Right." Greg looked at Hopkins, who still remained uncharacteristically quiet, and nodded to the both of them. "Geoffrey, I wish I knew what to say,"

"No worries," Geoffrey said, and gave him a half-smile. "I understand. Listen, thanks for looking out for me."

"Of course."

"It means a lot."

"Yeah."

He watched Geoffrey lead Colin into the house with his hand at the small of his back, and didn't move off towards their cars until the door had shut.

"Huh," he said to Hopkins as they rounded the hedgerow on the corner. "Wonder what the deal is with them." Was Geoffrey just indulging Colin's little crush, or was it more complicated than that? Was it going to _become_ more complicated than that? Greg didn't envy Armstrong, having to sit in the orbit of all that tension, and he thanked god for the relative simplicity in his own life.

When they reached their cars, Greg studied Hopkins's face. "What's going on?"

"Oh." Hopkins blinked as if he'd been miles away. "Nothing, no I'm fine."

"Bull."

Hopkins swallowed. "It's just…" He stared at a hedge as if it held an answer he was to meant read out. "I don't like people disappearing. There was a thing, once. With a girlfriend. Turned out she was fine, but…I know how it feels. And then…" He gestured toward the house.

"What, with Robert?"

"It just got worse."

Greg was missing something.

"I was… It just reminded me too much of my father. The last few months, he lived with me. It's been three years since, but sometimes…"

The penny dropped, and Greg understood Hopkins just a little bit better, now. "Christ. I'm so sorry."

Hopkins tried to wave it all away. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

"God, no wonder… _Jesus._ I'm so sorry."

"Please. Don't worry about it. I don't know why it hit me so hard."

"Listen." Mycroft still hadn't texted back, and Greg thought if he had to go back to the Yard he'd go mad. All day he'd been feeling emotionally-wrought and antsy and quite a bit off. "Let's go get something to eat. And drink, more to the point. We can talk about work. Or not, whatever you like."

Hopkins thought about it for a moment before replying. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, that sounds… That sounds nice." He tried on a smile, though it wasn't entirely convincing. "Thanks, Greg."

* * *

A pint or two seemed to cushion the experience, and soon Hopkins's smile came just a bit easier. By the time Greg took out his mobile for the twentieth time to check for texts, Hopkins's eyes actually sparkled.

"You're just waiting for me to leave so you can meet a hot date, aren't you."

Greg felt embarrassment steam his cheeks. "No, sorry." He tucked his phone more firmly into his pocket. "What an arsehole."

"Nah, I'm just teasing. You're fine."

"It's just…I was… I never got a text back from someone after this morning, and I was… I mean. After that case…"

"Yeah, I get it." A small smile tweaked the side of Hopkins's mouth. "Missing lovers on the brain."

Now that Hopkins had him thinking about on the topic, Greg realised it wasn't Mycroft's absence itself that was bothering him, necessarily, but that he was worried about him. Mycroft met with murderers fingering guns in their pockets, after all, a fact which Greg had seen firsthand. Did that mean Greg had reason to worry? Did the fact that Alice-Aerin-Audra was always keeping track of him mean Mycroft was necessarily safe? Did Mycroft have any idea how much it was bugging Greg that he'd gone quiet?

Maybe he did know, and it meant he'd sussed out how Greg felt about him. He _should_ know, being Mycroft. He could tell what Greg had eaten for the previous night's dinner, for christ's sake. Feelings as strong as Greg's should be far more easy to deduce.

Greg was too distracted to feel very guilty about the pronoun-avoidance dance he was doing, or the fact that they were once again circling round a subject which was obviously a sore spot for Hopkins. No wonder he'd spent so much time tailing Armstrong overnight. "Probably just…busy."

Hopkins's expression turned incisive. "You're really concerned."

"…A bit."

"Well." Hopkins cleared his throat and pushed Greg's pint toward him. "Take your own advice and drink this. Let's discuss theories about Colin and Geoffrey. Stop worrying about things we can't control. Gossip instead."

It seemed like a fair suggestion. Greg took it.

* * *

"So tell me about Sherlock."

Greg choked on his beer. "Why do you want to know about him?"

"Well, I figure everyone gets their turn in the barrel at some point. I just want to be ready."

"What have they told you at work?"

"I'd rather hear it from you. You're the one who's known him the longest. And you'll have better information. Less… Hm. How should I put this?"

"Bitter?"

"Well." Hopkins laughed. "Yeah, something like that."

"Erm." Greg turned his pint in circles against the tabletop, just to buy himself some time. "He's…acerbic. Which I'm sure you've heard. He's rude. Hesitant to give out information, even when you need it, because he prefers not to present half-baked theories. Which is annoying, but is good for practising your patience. He's a good man, though, regardless of what Donovan says. And what he says about himself, frankly. He can be remarkably self-centred, but it comes from a place of wanting to _do_ something, and these days that's rarer than I'd like. And whatever it is he wants to do, he'll do it. He gets the job done. Regardless of diplomacy or politics, he gets the job done. He's the sort you want on your side."

Hopkins was silent for a moment. "Well, I guess I can see now why you work with him so much."

"Plus, he's good for my numbers."

"No doubt. And the guy you phone for your background data really is his brother?"

Greg's stomach flipped. He really hoped he wasn't about to ask something Greg would have a tough time lying about. "Yeah."

"Who has all this super-special access."

"Yep."

"Huh." Hopkins frowned into the middle distance and held the pint glass up to his face. "Interesting family."

Something about the way he said it eased the tension that had been forming in Greg's gut. Maybe he didn't suspect anything after all. Maybe he was just interested in the Sherlock connection.

On the other hand, if he felt he had to hide their relationship from Hopkins, what business did he have going with Mycroft to the gala? He was going to have to develop some testicular fortitude, sooner or later.

But for now, he could deflect with the best of them.

"You have no idea."

* * *

Greg's mobile finally buzzed. He had it in his hand before he remembered that he'd intended not to be That Guy.

Noting his hesitation, Hopkins started laughing at him. "Oh my god, just read the damn thing."

Sheepish, Greg thumbed in the lock code and held the phone low enough that Hopkins couldn't see the screen.

`Apologies. I didn't mean to be so absent, but not one single thing went as planned today. It's all very tiresome, but on the plus side, I have high hopes this means I'll have even more time this weekend.`

Relief flooded through him.

With a glance across the table to Hopkins, who was staring intently at the television screen while obviously not looking at him, Greg typed, `I'm just glad you're okay`, then erased it, then tried, `That seems a fair tradeoff,` then erased that. Finally he decided on `Not a problem.` and pressed send before he could over-think it any more than he already was. He couldn't help thinking that this conversation would be nicer in person.

Suddenly, Greg wanted Mycroft with a force that shocked him. He reeled, craving his smell and his touch and the narrow curve of his hips. His soft lower belly. The way he moved.

Greg tried to shake it off as Hopkins pushed his hair back from his clear, unlined forehead, the picture of health and youth and all things desirable. And yet all Greg really desired was Mycroft's smile: across the pillow and intimate.

Hot on desire's heels came irritation. Would it really have been out of the question to fire off a quick text? To let Greg know he was okay? Wasn't Greg's mental state important, too? Did Mycroft even give a shit?

Taking a mental breath, Greg grasped for reason. Of course he gave a shit. Perhaps he had been in some bunker without signal. Perhaps he had been taking care of something of life-and-death importance.

Regardless, could Greg really say he had the right to demand accountability from him in the first place?

Unsure if he was angry with himself or Mycroft, and uncomfortable with the burn of his own entitlement, Greg took a mental breath. He put his mobile to sleep and shifted to jam it back into his pocket, but the very moment it went black the thing rang, scaring the life out of him.

It was Donovan. "You're still up, then."

Greg took a deep breath, willing his heart rate back under control. "Yeah, still up."

"You okay?"

"The phone just startled me."

"Sorry."

Greg shrugged that away. "So what do you need?"

"I had an idea how to snag Neligan."

"…Oh?" He sat up straighter in his chair, while around him the crowd hooted about something that had happened on the screen.

There was a pause. "No wonder I didn't wake you. You're at the pub again. With Hopkins, I assume."

"Er. Yes. After we finished the case, we—"

"Listen, what's going on?"

Greg shook his head, at a loss. "We're just…"

"You and Sam. Is there something going on?"

"Can you be more specific?"

"I know you think he's hot, too. Are you sure this isn't—"

"No! I'm…" He looked across the table to Hopkins, who had stood and was making signs that he was going to the gents'. Greg nodded him off before continuing. "No. I'm very much…otherwise occupied. Besides, he's had a wife."

"So did you."

It was a fair point. "Since when is it your business to defend Mycroft's honour?"

"Since you're finally happy. Everyone's job is easier when you are."

Greg rolled his eyes at the dregs of his beer. "I _am_ happy. Really. Happier than I've been in a long time. Promise." Her concern would have been touching if it hadn't been so annoying.

"Well." She cleared her throat. "Good."

There was heavy silence between them. "So tell me your plan to catch Neligan."

"Ah," she said. "Not sure you're gonna like it. But hear me out anyway. I think it's gonna work."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After a sigh, and a moment where Greg stared at the sink and wished for Mycroft's company, he headed back to the spare room. It was just as well, really. Mycroft was right; there was a lot of cleaning to do, and not a lot of time in which to do it. It was going to take some scrambling since he left it all so late, but it would all come together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas Mazarin221B, BakerStMel, and WearItCounts help me make sure these chapters flow easily each week even when our lives aren't flowing easily, and I owe them so many thanks.

"I hope you're right," Greg said the next morning.

"I am," Donovan replied, and she led him down from the behind the briefing podium. Hopkins and Kelly were already fighting off questions from reporters.

"Well, the deed is done now." And if it didn't work, they'd just hinted to the entire press pool for no reason that their investigation into Grange's death may or may not centre round Randall Microsystems. He caught sight of Donovan's face in profile and pulled her aside, making sure there were no microphones nearby and that he was out of earshot. "Hey. Mind your poker face. We don't have a chance in hell of smoking out Neligan if people don't believe we've had a result. You don't have to look happy, just don't scowl."

"I know. This whole thing was _my idea_. And I don't scowl," Donovan said, doing exactly that. Then she apparently had a flash of self-awareness, because she sighed. "Fine."

"This is Hopkins's first case, and I want him to be able to investigate freely without being cock-blocked." He coughed. "As it were."

Donovan narrowed her eyes. "Being awfully altruistic, are we?"

"When you make DI, aren't you going to hope that your peers have your back?"

"Older, more venerable peers, you mean?"

"Oh, get away," Greg said, rolling his eyes at the twist of a smile touching her mouth. He grabbed his coat off the hook. "Back to the office. I want us to—"

"Aren't you taking off now? It's getting late."

"Taking off…?"

She blinked. " _Sharon_ , sir. You told me you were taking an early day so you could finish getting ready for Sharon."

His heart lurched. "Shit, what time is it?"

"Well past lunchtime."

"Shit, I've gotta… Damn it." He handed his gloves to her and checked for his keys.

Sally snorted at him. "I'd wondered why you were lingering. Doesn't she meet The Boyfriend tomorrow?"

"Shit." He nodded to a few of the familiar faces in the press and booked it for his car. Sally kept pace. "Why did I park so fucking far from the building?"

"You're only one street away," she said. And now she was laughing. Greg tried to frown, but was too busy trying not to simply run for it; he loathed being more comic relief for her than he already was. "How much could you still have to do? Haven't you been preparing for weeks now?"

"Shut up," Greg said. They rounded the corner and finally he _did_ run, scattering pedestrians in his wake. Her laugh caught up with him before she did.

"Sir."

The sincerity in her voice made him stop fumbling with the lock to look at her.

"Good luck this weekend," she said. "Really."

"Thanks." He twisted her a smile.

"Phone if you need a hand with the furniture."

"Really?" he said, surprised.

She snorted. "No. I've got plans of my own. Not my fault you left this to the last minute." Then she cracked a grin and waved him on. "Go! Be a dad!"

At the last, a bit of brightness opened up in his chest. He drove off, leaving the chaos of the press, Hopkins's case, and Donovan behind, looking forward to getting the final pieces in place for an exciting but nerve-wracked long weekend.

* * *

Cursing himself for his procrastination, when Greg got home he finally dragged out the hoover and the broom and started the process of getting the flat ready for company. It was only Sharon, granted, but it was the first time she was going to see the place and he wanted it to be as pleasant as possible for her. He blasted Queen as he worked.

Things weren't so bad, really. Mycroft had been visiting often enough that Greg had kept up on his laundry, and the bath only needed a quick once-over instead of a deep clean. But Sally was right; the thing he really wasn't looking forward to was the second bedroom. When he'd moved in, the room had been intended as a study. But as he'd filled up the few bookshelves in the lounge he realised there needed to be shelves in the study, too, and then he'd needed a place to put his desk, and then the filing cabinets, and then the guest bed, and before he knew it the place had become a hodgepodge oubliette for furniture and was boxed in by storage he hadn't yet moved to the unit. It was certainly no place for a guest to stay.

Greg stood in the doorway of the room and sighed as his thought process circled back to Mycroft.

Mycroft.

They'd barely spoken at all that day; Greg had been too busy to do more than say a quick good morning, so the last real bit of communication had been in the car park in front of Hopkins and Colin. He worried over what he was going to say the next time they saw each other. He still wasn't certain how he felt about being left in the dark—or how he had a right to feel.

There was, he admitted, some tension there.

He stared at all he had yet to get done, reminded himself that this was for Sharon, and attacked the room.

* * *

After an hour or two, he'd actually made a dent. His phone rang as he was taking a break. When he saw who it was his heart lurched and his mouth went as dusty-dry as the boxes he'd just been moving. He reached for his glass before saying hello.

"I don't suppose you'd like a hand with that," Mycroft said.

Greg coughed on his soda water. "I beg your pardon?"

"You left work early. I presume you're readying for Sharon's visit."

"How did you know I left early?" 

"Nothing sinister. A colleague had to deliver something."

"And they happened to notice I was missing."

"They saw you get in your car, Gregory."

"I was leaving for a press conference. I came here straight from there."

"So. Would you like a hand?"

Greg pinched the spot above his nose. The furrow had started becoming engrained the day he met Sherlock, but Greg thought his relationship with Mycroft wasn't really going to help matters. His heart still sped in his throat. "Let me get this straight. You— _you_ —are offering to come down here and rearrange books and move boxes and clear out this room so Sharon can use it?"

"Me? Oh, absolutely not. I was going to offer one of my workers to help you."

Greg snorted. "My tax dollars at work?"

"Yours and many others'." Greg listened to the smile in Mycroft's voice and, incrementally, his stressed eased. "To be fair, I would myself, but I do have a lot to get through if I have any chance at all of getting away this weekend."

"No, no. I know how you feel about these sorts of things."

"I would help."

"No, Mycroft."

"If you prefer, I could suggest the cleaning service I use personally. If I phoned I have no doubt you could get an emergency appointment—"

"Mycroft, I'm fine. Thank you."

There was an awkward silence during which Greg sipped his water. He wondered whether cleaning was the real reason for the call, or if Mycroft was also feeling the strain.

"You didn't say how it was going," Mycroft said.

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking now."

"It's…fine," said Greg. He wandered down the corridor into the doorway and stared round at the wreck. It was more chaotic than it had been when he started, but change was always like that: things had to shift a bit, become messier before they could settle into their proper place. Greg was certain he would happier with the arrangement when he was through. "I've got most of the boxes for storage down in my car to take to the facility. I don't know what I'm going to do with my bicycle, but I suppose I'm probably too old for it now anyway. Or something. I should let that dream go; it's not as if I have the time. Other than that, I think I have space for all the books once I arrange them properly, so yeah. I'm good. I'm good, I think."

"Excellent," Mycroft said. "Is there anything I can reasonably do to help?"

"That doesn't involve misappropriation of spies to alphabetise the non-fiction?" said Greg. He smiled. "No, no, I'm good."

"Well." Mycroft swallowed. "Let me know."

They were quiet for a moment or so as Greg's heart began racing again. "Did you…" He swallowed. "You could come over and work while I move boxes?"

"Oh. That's…hardly necessary."

"Who gives a shit about necessary? Come over if you'd like."

"It seems ridiculous. I'm going to see you tomorrow."

He decided to go all-in. "There isn't a limit, you know. I'm allowed to see you more than once a week."

"You have a lot to do, and I wouldn't want to impose. No, no, I'll just plan on seeing you tomorrow."

"Okay." Disappointment sunk his stomach. "But if you change your mind, come on over. No imposition."

"I'll remember that. Thank you, Gregory."

"No problem." Greg took a breath and went to refill his water.

"I'll let you get back to the task at hand. But if you do decide you need a bit of help, don't hesitate."

"I won't."

"Good night."

"Good night."

After a sigh, and a moment where Greg stared at the sink and wished for Mycroft's company, he headed back to the spare room. It was just as well, really. Mycroft was right; there was a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time in which to do it. And he was still going to see him tomorrow night.

* * *

Greg ran a carload over to the storage place and then started organising the bookshelves. He opened up a cardboard box and peered into it to see the contents, then promptly sat on the bed to pore through it.

It was a bunch of mementos from Sharon's girlhood days: snapshots and certificates and little plastic things from lord knows where. He pulled out a photograph of Sharon and some friends in their pyjamas, gap-toothed smiles surrounded by books and toys, scarves around their necks as they pretended to be skiers on holiday. He grinned and placed it on the short bookshelf next to the bed that he thought might serve as a bedside table.

Sharon was going to be there tomorrow. _Tomorrow._ It had been months since he'd seen her, and now it was only a matter of hours before he left to pick her up from her train. A mixture of thrilled excitement and panic fluttered in his stomach and drove him off the bed to continue cleaning. He had to go to the shops in the morning. The shops for food, and maybe a gift? Yeah, he should definitely get her something fun and have it waiting on the bed when she arrived.

He went over the plan in his head as he worked on the bookshelves. Dinner with her and Mycroft tomorrow night, somewhere nice. He pushed quickly past the panic kindled by that image to envision Saturday. Go out for breakfast. Maybe do some shopping during the day. Work on paperwork during the afternoon, and then he'd make her something for dinner—no, she'd wanted to go to the vegan place, that's right. The vegan place for supper, and then maybe more paperwork. Or maybe out to see a film. And on Sunday he was definitely going to make her breakfast. Blueberry waffles. Yes.

He started putting together a mental list of groceries as he threw in a load of laundry, then sighed in relief. This was good. This was going to work. It was going to take some scrambling since he left it all so late, but it would all come together. He thought he heard the sound of a text alert, but there wasn't one.

Greg scrubbed his face with both hands and got back to cleaning.

* * *

He was making himself a sandwich when there was a rustling outside the door, and then a knock.

"You did offer," said Mycroft, when Greg was stood blinking at him from across the threshold. He appeared to be armed to spend the night. 

Nerves thrilled through Greg. He fumbled for something to say. "I'm just amazed you knocked." He stepped aside. "You didn't just let yourself in."

As Mycroft adjusted his bags and stepped through, his face twisted. "I didn't know that bothered you so m—"

Greg stopped him with a kiss, more to quiet his own nerves than to quiet Mycroft. He breathed in Mycroft's warmth and aftershave. It helped. "Shh. I'm not going to chuck Weaveworld at your head."

"That's very considerate of you."

"What changed your mind?"

"Oh…" Mycroft made a trailed off, dismissive, Holmesian gesture with one hand. "Would you believe me if I said my house was being fumigated?"

"Why, do you want me to believe you?"

"It might make it easier."

"Fine, forget I asked." Greg's stomach had settled, and Mycroft hadn't been there for more than a minute.

"Don't let me interrupt you. I brought paperwork."

"So you aren't going to insist on a bottle of wine and my full attention?"

"I think you'd be well within your rights to kick me out if I did."

Greg kept his teeth together; it was never going to happen. He offered Mycroft a sandwich, was politely refused, then let him get himself set up on the sofa while Greg finished assembling his dinner. By the time he came back out with his food Mycroft was already surrounded by a sea of folders, but for one clear spot on the far end. "Is this seat taken?" Greg said. Mycroft looked up blankly, his mind already a million miles away, and Greg sniffed a laugh. "Never mind." After a moment, Mycroft's turned his attention back downward, and Greg ate while he read.

It was incredibly peaceful.

* * *

Greg flopped down onto the sofa beside Mycroft, knackered. He drank most of a glass of water in one go.

"Finished?"

"Nearly." He slumped further into the sofa cushions. "I wish I hadn't procrastinated."

"The usual wish of a procrastinator," said Mycroft.

"Arsehole." Greg smirked, then set his glass aside.

Mycroft closed a file and dropped it into the coffee table. Then, to Greg's astonishment, he lifted up one of Greg's feet and manhandled him sideways so it rested in his lap, and without a word pressed both thumbs into the arch of Greg's foot. A delicious pain wormed all the way up into his calf.

Greg groaned. "Oh, _christ,_ what are you doing?"

"What does it feel like I'm doing?" When he dug his thumbs in again he found a tight knot, and Greg levitated off the sofa. Then a burn set in, and his eyes rolled back. "Is that good?"

"Fuck," Greg groaned. Mycroft began compressing Greg's heel, then squeezing the outside edge and manipulating all the bones, and it all turned Greg's spine to jelly. Then Mycroft rolled his toes between his fingers, and Greg stopped holding back. He moaned, loudly, not caring if he sounded as if he belonged in a porn film. It was _heaven_. "How did— Where did you learn how to do this?"

"I know a great number of things which might surprise you." Mycroft pinched the ends of his toes between his thumb and forefinger in a way that made every ache melt into nothingness.

"You've been holding out on me."

"I was simply choosing to keep the secret weapon until the correct moment."

"Which is now."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Instinct."

"Your instincts are impeccable."

Mycroft didn't answer. Instead he gave Greg's foot a few targeted squeezes that sapped his will to move. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "So you're prepared for this weekend."

Greg was blindsided by the change in topic; if he could have sat up in surprise, he would have. "In theory."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the bedroom is nearly clean."

"But otherwise?"

Greg scrubbed his face with a hand. "I don't know."

"You do still want to have dinner together tomorrow night?"

"Of course." He tried to sound as secure as possible.

Mycroft stopped massaging for a moment. "Gregory."

"Mm."

"Please look at me." Reluctantly, Greg rolled his head sideways to meet his gaze. "Do I need to remind you you're allowed to say no?"

"That's ridiculous. I know how much you're looking forward to meeting her."

"But the thought makes you nervous."

"Of course it does."

"Why?"

Greg broke eye contact and shrugged against the armrest. "I don't know."

"I'm predisposed to like her, you know."

Which pulled Greg's attention back to Mycroft's face. "You are? Why?"

"She's yours."

Warmth burned in Greg's chest, and instead of looking away, this time he let the connection intensify.

Mycroft licked his lips. "And if I'm not much mistaken, she's also looking forward to meeting me. So I don't understand the trouble."

"Just because I…I like you both doesn't necessarily mean you will get along. That's not the way it works."

"And you feel the pressure."

"Of course I do."

"Is it going to change a thing if I tell you not to feel pressured?"

"I doubt it."

"Then I won't bother." Mycroft stared down at the muscle he was working, but Greg could tell he was considering how to say something. "It might not be the best moment to mention this, but I’m looking forward to watching you be the ‘proud papa’.“

Greg felt his face run hot. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not certain what it is about your manner when you do it—whether it’s a misplaced mammalian drive to seek the caregiver, the virile mate, or something else entirely—but I find it…rather sexy, actually.”

“…Sexy?”

“Attractive. Sexy. Appealing. I wouldn’t read too much into it, Gregory. All it means is that I’m looking forward to watching you be proud of her, in person.”

“Because you find it sexy.”

“You’re making me regret I ever brought it up.”

“I’ll gladly never speak of it again.” But he continued to roll that fact around his mind, and he had to admit a small part of him was pleased that Mycroft didn’t feel burdened by having a relationship with a parent. It could very easily have been the case—particularly with someone like Mycroft.

Then Mycroft began kneading up Greg's calf, and it wiped his mind entirely. "You have magic hands," Greg murmured.

"So you've said."

"What the hell did I—" He was interrupted when Mycroft lifted his leg to shoot a warming stretch of muscle down the back of his thigh and into his arse. Greg made an embarrassing burbling noise before he could control himself. "Hngh. What did I do to deserve this?"

"You had a busy day."

"Most of my days are busy."

"Most days don't involve moving furniture." He placed Greg's leg down and started on the other.

"Or being on my feet this much, thank god for that."

"You don't miss being a constable, then."

"When I was a constable I had the energy to go with it."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and squeezed Greg's heel. The pain it caused itched a little. "You're not exactly lacking energy, Gregory."

"Well, I'm not young, either."

"Everything is relative."

"I'm closer to retiring than not." Mycroft dug his thumb into a knot deep on the underside of Greg's calf, making him whimper. "Oh god, what the _fuck_."

"I should do this more often."

"Are you kidding? You should do this every day." 

Mycroft massaged great handfuls of Greg's calf muscle in a pensive silence, then lifted the leg to stretch his hamstring and make Greg groan. "Are you trying to get me to compliment the youth and vigour of your body?"

"Only if you'll describe me as 'virile'."

"Should I discuss your humours as well?"

"If you like. Sanguine, melancholia…blood, bile… Which humour is semen? Arouse-ia?"

Mycroft placed Greg's leg down and stared at him, eyebrows raised. "Must you?"

Greg snickered. He sat up and took Mycroft's face in both hands for a gentle kiss. "Thanks," he said.

"It was my pleasure."

"You're not the only one."

Greg stared into Mycroft's face. He seemed softer, somehow, when limned in blue and yellow from his laptop and the light from the kitchen. A moment of calm settled over Greg, and he understood: Greg wasn't simply grateful for the massage. He was grateful that Mycroft was there in the first place, being a comforting and steady presence. And again: Mycroft didn't do these sorts of things unless he wanted to, and so he really must want to be there.

Greg hadn't understood how deep the strain had been until it was gone. His chest tightened with love, and he was grateful.

For a frozen moment, Mycroft seemed to look into him. Then his eyes widened and he took a visible breath, and Greg saw it: deduction, recognition, surprise.

_He knows._

Mycroft knew Greg loved him.

Without any further sign or signal they crashed into a kiss. Greg couldn't breathe and he couldn't get close enough, and the ache resounding in his chest had little to do with the violence of their collision. The spin of the world tipped him onto the sofa. Mycroft followed him over, and his moan filled the space between their mouths. Greg dove wholehearted into it—his sounds and his scent and his touch—and tightened his leg round Mycroft's thigh to pull him as close as possible.

The last of Greg's irritation from the past two days melted into nothingness, replaced instead by a sense of relief. When the sex had still been new between them all Greg wanted was to smash against Mycroft's body and drink in the pleasure, letting it mount higher and higher until it spilled. But now adoration backed up into his throat and behind his eyes, and from his passion blossomed the need to communicate to Mycroft that yes, what he was seeing was there. And more. So much more.

Greg felt so much more.

For endless minutes they kissed while Greg reeled and Mycroft made helpless noises. He stroked his hands over every inch of Greg he could touch. In a fog, he writhed against Mycroft. Clothing became unwanted friction, and sweat trickled down his spine. Greg bit at Mycroft's mouth and panted and rolled his hips over and over and over against his slim thigh, but none of it was enough.

Mycroft keened and shoved a hand between them to fight with his belt. Greg tried to help but was just making it worse, so instead he threaded both hands into Mycroft's hair and focused on kissing him as deeply as possible while Mycroft bared them both to mid-thigh. The very instant Mycroft wrapped his hand round both their cocks Greg surrendered his last threads of control.

He soon forgot anything but heated skin, harsh breath, muscles that shook, pleasure that burned. His world had become a swirling mix of urgency and passion.

Mycroft was making plaintive, heartbreaking noises into his ear while he stroked them together, hard against hard, and for the moment that was all Greg needed. He cried out and clawed himself closer, scraping his nails down Mycroft's back. Heat pricked at his back and in the flush of his cheeks. His thighs burned. Mycroft shoved against him over and over again, crying out. A note of exultation was in his voice, and Greg wanted more. He wanted _everything_. He wanted it right then, and he wanted it always.

Mycroft had seen what Greg felt and still was throwing himself in for more.

This wasn't just confirmation: it was _communion_.

Love tightened his throat.

When at last Mycroft's orgasm struck—a grating noise, followed by a hot flood—it was spectacular. But with the two of them, the sex had _always_ been spectacular. And when Greg came moments later in a too-bright roar that broke into scintillating flashes of pleasure, he realised something further: that there had been a connection between them even before they'd ended up accidentally fucking against the wall. Their bodies had worked perfectly together from the off. Something already formed had simply clicked into place.

The enormity of that was too terrifying to contemplate.

When Greg's climax finally burned away to ash, he buried his face against Mycroft's sex-warm skin and breathed. The smell of salt and faded cologne made his spine loose. Under his t-shirt, a bead of sweat dripped down his side.

Mycroft pressed a hard kiss into the side of his head. "Better?"

Greg was too relaxed even to nod. "Much." _I love you._

"Don't you have more cleaning to finish?"

"A bit."

"Would you like me to keep you company while you work?"

 _God, yes._ "If you don't mind."

There was a breath, and Mycroft squeezed round his ribs. "I don't," he said. Greg clung to him as if he were a life raft. He would have to let go eventually, if he was going to finish cleaning, but for the moment all he wanted was to hold on. "I don't mind at all."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg sighed and cast a sideways glance at Mycroft, who, even by the low, pinkish light of the restaurant, was obviously blushing. Sharon looked as if she were about to explode with glee._
> 
> Sharon's finally in town, and she goes out for a nice dinner with Greg and Mycroft.  
> It goes just about as well as Greg had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas WearItCounts, Mazarin221B, and BakerStMel, this chapter is so much cleaner and lighter. They are fantastic.

Greg stepped across the platform and hugged her.

"Hey sweetheart," he said into Sharon's hair. "How was the trip?"

"Easy peasy," she said. She made a great show of looking around him. "So where is he?"

Greg laughed. "Really? No 'hi Dad, how are you?' Just straight to, 'where's Mycroft'?"

"I'm sure I'll hear all about _you_ later. I want to see your boy."

"Oh my god," he said, steering her toward the exit with a hand between her shoulderblades. "Please don't call him that."

"Your sweetie? Your man-thing?"

"Oh, _help_."

"So?"

"So?"

"Where is he?"

"He's meeting us at the restaurant."

"Where are we going?"

"La Figue Fumante."

Sharon whistled. "That's a bit posh."

"Too posh? Sorry, I probably should have asked."

"No, it's all right. I'm not dressed for it, though."

"Well, I—"

"Are we going straight there?"

"Yeah. The reservations are for 7:30."

"Hold on, then." She handed him her coat and steered right into the ladies'. Greg stood there feeling like an idiot.

Five minutes later she emerged wearing black trousers and a nicer, cowl-neck sort of top thing. "There," she said. "This'll do."

"You look nice."

"I know." She shot him a cheeky grin and took her coat.

He snorted. "Well, as long as you know."

"They're not the shoes I would have voted for, but since I didn't really get much warning..."

"Oh stop." He led her out to his car. "Since when do you care, anyway?"

"Since we're on our way to a posh restaurant and I have to keep up with your posh boyfriend."

"You know you don't have to 'keep up' with him, right?"

"I figured, but it doesn't hurt to try."

"You 'figured'?"

"He's dating _you_ , isn't he?"

"Oh, for—fasten your belt, Rude."

She giggled and complied. He eased his car out toward the main road, glancing at her profile. In the strobing, cold-yellow streetlight she looked so much like Vic that it made his stomach clench. The speed with which she'd gone from teen to adult was wildly disconcerting, and much as she might take after him in temperament, the angle of her head was all Victoria. He glanced sideways at her again and caught her biting her thumbnail.

"Your hair got long," he said, drawing her out of her nerves.

"It does that when I don't cut it."

"Logical."

"Yours got short," she said pointedly, staring at his head.

He shrugged. "Eh, it was time for a change."

"Boyfriend, dramatically-short haircut…"

"It's not dramatic."

"It's almost a buzz cut. Shorter than I've seen it in...ever?"

"It was even shorter a few weeks ago."

"Jesus."

"Does that mean you don't like it?"

"No, it just means…" Sharon sighed and stared out the window pensively. "Things are changing."

It was only a haircut, but he knew what she meant. They sat in silence as he drove across the city. It started to spit rain—weakly, without any real commitment—and for a while they were accompanied only by the sound of the wipers squeaking across the glass.

She shivered and started shuffling through the pile of cds tucked into the dash. "So."

"So," he said.

"Are you gonna tell me more about him before we get there?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Oh…you know…anything at all…"

He laughed. "You're going to meet him soon." He ignored the thrill of fear at the truth of it.

"You've been so tight-lipped about him. I just want something to go on. Besides his brother and his name."

"He's…" Greg scrambled for something to describe him with. "Tall."

" _Tall_?"

"Yeah..." He glanced at her. "What?"

"I ask you to describe your boyfriend and the only thing you can think of is 'tall'?"

"It's not the _only_ thing..."

"Well?"

He sighed. "He's…fastidious."

"Well, now I'm even more worried about my shoes."

He glanced down at them. They seemed like perfectly serviceable black flats. "What?"

"Never mind." She scrubbed her face with her hands. "What else?"

"He's… Er. Oh! He paints."

"Paints like walls or paints like pictures?"

"He painted a picture of a crime scene and put me in it."

Something about that made her laugh. "That sounds amazing. He must be smitten."

"What, he has to be smitten to want to paint this ugly face?" Greg said in faux-offence, partly because he wanted it to be true and partly because the discussion of feelings made him even more nervous than he already was.

"Oh, stop," she said. "It's sweet. Is he any good?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not. When you meet him, you'll see why."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

"Does he look like a painter?"

"Not at all."

"Then what?"

"He…" Greg fumbled for the right words. "Mycroft seems like he'd be good at anything he set his mind to."

He could feel her looking at him. "I like him already," she said.

* * *

Mycroft actually stood up from the table to shake her hand. "Miss Lestrade."

She laughed, just a bit, and held out her hand like a debutante at a ball. "I believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh, just call him Mycroft." _For christ's sake._ It was the same as Sherlock's surname, and she knew it.

He smiled, scanning her in his way. "It's Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. But Mycroft is fine."

"Sharon will be fine too, then." She grinned and scanned him back. "Nice suit." She glanced sideways at Greg and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" He looked down at himself. "I look fine. This is my good court suit."

"Exactly," she said pointedly, and sat.

"Didn't know they taught classes in menswear," Greg said, taking the other free chair. He did have to admit Mycroft looked fantastic—dark charcoal pinstripe, red in his tie, red in his pocket square. But Mycroft very often looked fantastic. And Sharon, as far as Greg knew, had never before seemed to care much about clothing.

"It's the internet's fault, not uni." She smirked. "I learned all _sorts_ of interesting things."

The idea of her learning 'interesting things' from the internet made him want to run screaming for the hills. "Lord save me."

"About costuming and fashion, Dad, come on." Sharon gave him a look that said, 'don't be ridiculous.'

"Change the subject. _Now_ ," Greg said.

"Why, am I freaking you out?"

"I'd prefer not to think about—what?" he asked Mycroft, who was looking between the both of them with the tiniest of smiles on his face.

"Oh. Nothing," he said.

"That's not a nothing face."

"I've been looking forward to this evening." Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and looked over the wine list.

"Have you."

"Immensely."

* * *

"So tell me about this haircut?" Sharon said, and took a bite of her duck.

Greg stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. "It's a haircut."

Sharon turned to Mycroft. "Do you like it?"

"Gregory is always clean and presentable."

"Wait. What?" Greg said.

"It's much preferable to the alternative," said Mycroft.

Greg gave up on eating for the moment and focused on Mycroft. "Hold on, what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"OoooooOOOhhhh," said Sharon, as if they were two kids fighting at recess.

Greg blinked. "You don't like it?" he asked Mycroft.

"It's come to grow on me."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"It wasn't my place."

"I think you can safely assume it's your place now," Sharon said.

Greg made an effort not to look away from Mycroft and roll his eyes at her. He was unsuccessful. "Sharon."

Mycroft said, "I meant what I said. It's clean and presentable, and I'm sure it's very easy to care for."

Sharon laughed.

"It's—" Greg coughed. "No, but it _is_. I like it. I think it makes a nice change."

"Saves on product," Sharon said.

This time, Greg did turn to glare at her. "Sharon."

"Well," Mycroft said primly, "I have nothing more to say on the subject." He cut into his chicken.

Greg turned to Sharon again. "Was this topic chosen just to start trouble?"

"How—" She stifled her giggles. "How would I know it would start trouble?"

"You were just hoping he was on your side."

"No, I was assuming he was on my side."

"It really is most endearing once you become used to the change," Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him. "I thought you had nothing more to say on the subject?"

"I wanted to smooth the ruffled feathers."

Something about that was immensely funny to Sharon; she started laughing again. "Stop," Greg said.

"Do you like it better than the—" She gestured at Mycroft to indicate the way Greg's fringe used to spike up sometimes.

Mycroft looked as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "It has its advantages, I must admit."

Sharon leaned in toward Greg and said at a mock whisper, "That means he likes touching it even more now than he did before."

"Must you translate?" said Greg. His stomach flipped.

"Something wrong with your filet, Dad? You look ill."

"I'm not ill. I'm annoyed."

"Uh-huh."

Greg sighed and cast a sideways glance at Mycroft, who, even by the low, pinkish light of the restaurant, was obviously blushing. Sharon looked as if she were about to explode with glee. "Stop," Greg told her.

"I'm not doing anything."

"I don't believe you."

"That's fine."

Greg sighed and glanced at them both. "For christ's sake, both of you. This was a terrible idea."

Sharon grinned even harder.

* * *

"Well, regardless," Greg said, "you're a painter. I've wondered for a while whether painters wouldn't make better-than-usual witnesses. You know; because with realism you'd have to paint what you see. Not let your brain tell you what you're seeing, but what your eye actually sees."

"On the contrary," Mycroft cut in. "Good painting is a translation. An interpretation. It's no more a dry recitation of facts than any witness statement. It's coloured by our own experiences and subjectivity. Coloured, sometimes literally. If unaccented realism were required, better to take a photograph."

"But in skilled hands, even photography is a translation," said Sharon. "Hell, even unskilled hands. If nothing else, the decision of what to keep within the frame is a choice."

"Says the director," Greg said.

Sharon smiled. "No, but really." She took a bite of her duck and chewed, conducting small symphonies with her fork as she composed her next sentence. "Directing is subjective. Even if it's meant to be reality, it's not. Film is just as interpretive as painting. And illusory. People will go on and on about the way it lies to us, but it's all art, so it's all fake. Ceci n'est pas une… _O.K. Corral_. It's a set. It's painted flats and lights that are designed to look like the Old West. Or Morocco. Or the Red Sea, or whatever. It doesn't mean the feelings it elicits are illusions, though, but if it…" She held out a hand as if offering up her point. "If it reminds you of the pipe your father smoked or makes you crave an apple, there's power in it. It's not a lie. It's just a different truth."

Mycroft tilted his head as he looked at her, but the only reason Greg saw it was because the pause in all that pretentiousness made him drag his gaze up from his plate. "Magritte," Mycroft said.

Sharon seemed derailed from her thought. "Yeah, of course. Why? Do you like Magritte?"

"Very much." Mycroft's expression softened.

"Me too."

"Me three," Greg chimed in, just so he had something to say.

"I have a soft spot for any artist who uses—or used, I guess—artistic construction to comment on the nature of reality," Sharon said. "I mean, I guess that's a lot of them, but there are a few I really love. Magritte, Seurat… I know they're different, but I feel like there's a presentational style they both have. And the fact that Seurat took the latest knowledge of optics and used that in his painting… Well, obviously, as someone who studies film I'm going to draw a direct line from the study of optics and the creation of art, to film technology and how that affects what we create as film-makers."

Mycroft nodded. "Undoubtedly. And scientific discoveries can drive the production of new disciplines of art just as they drive new horizons in cinematography."

"Yeah. 48 frames per second can be surreal the first time you see it. Add that in with 3D technology and there really is a 'ceci n'est pas une dragon' sort of experience."

At this point Greg began to zone out again. To be fair, it was a fantastic thing, the two of them getting along so well, so invested in their conversation that Sharon had barely taken a bite in the last five minutes, but Greg was clawing for a handhold in the conversation.

He noticed across the restaurant a seated young couple trying their best to look nonchalant. The woman leaned down to get her purse, and Greg strained his vision to see what she was getting out of it. She peered around the room over the tablecloth, her eyes scanning for something. Greg's spine stiffened. He saw her flick her gaze up to her companion as she rooted around in her oversized bag for what seemed an awfully-long time, and then sat back with her hands in her lap as if she hadn't been doing anything. She looked around the room again. A waitress came over to the table to ask them a question and the woman knocked her fork to the floor. While her partner was bent over to pick it up she slipped something into the waitress's hand. Greg watched the waitress retreat behind the bar, unable to see what was in her hand. A piece of paper? No, smaller.

When the waitress came forward with two glasses to meet the sommelier at the table with champagne, Greg finally realised what was going on. He smiled as his spine relaxed. _Engagement._

He tuned back in to hear Mycroft and Sharon discussing work-life balance, of all things.

"But he was ruthless about separating himself from the larger, workaday context of Parisian life," Sharon said. "Studies in the morning, painting later… Moving away from everyone to live in secret with what's-her-name, not Marie… _Madeleine_ , and their kid. To focus on his work. Keep his world small, I imagine. The devotion is really admirable."

 _You didn't find it so admirable when I was working long hours,_ Greg thought. He speared some potato, chewed it, and kept his mouth shut.

"Is it," Mycroft said. Greg saw Mycroft give him a look then begin to cut up more of his chicken.

"You disagree?" said Sharon.

"No." Mycroft's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline though his focus was squarely on his plate. "As a matter of fact, I don't. Focus is the surest way to get the desired result. And in Seurat's case, it afforded him the chance for innovation he mightn't have achieved had he been more swayed to participate in the social climate of his day."

"He kept his wife and kid secret from his family, though."

"I wonder whether that was a mistake." 

"Oh?"

"It now seems to me that a family unit can be a help rather than a hinderance. It creates obligations, but in return that sort of support can provide a broad base on which to build the scaffolding of a career," Mycroft said, and Greg had the peculiar sensation that he was talking at him. Was he being chastised for not spending enough time with his family? By Mycroft? That would be rich. Greg couldn't look at him.

"That's a poetic way to look at it," Sharon said. "Is this a new revelation?"

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"I see," Sharon said. Greg clenched his jaw and stayed silent.

"There are difficulties with that, as there are with any obligation—"

Sharon nodded. "But it's worth the trouble."

"Absolutely."

Finally, Greg couldn't hold back anymore. "Is that why you'll drop anything to go to Sherlock?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Among several reasons, yes." Greg studiously took a bite of his meal. The implications that Mycroft cared more for his family than Greg did were ludicrous. "And you would do the same."

Greg nearly spat out his bite. "Not for Sherlock."

"No? You've done it before."

"When I thought he was in danger."

"Nevertheless. You care. Deeply. About a great many people."

"What are you trying to say, Mycroft?"

Mycroft blinked. "I thought that was clear."

"Not to me."

Under the table, Greg was startled by the brush of Mycroft's foot against his ankle. He met his gaze. "Given the right situation, social connections can be a help, rather than a hindrance," Mycroft said.

Greg's mouth ran dry. "Oh," he said stupidly. _It's a recent revelation._ "…Right." Greg's heart was pounding, even as he was having a bit of trouble finding his way through the mire of this conversation.

"Am I correct in presuming you don't find those sorts of obligations bothersome?"

He felt Sharon's gaze burning into the side of his face, but he couldn't look at her. "Of course not," he said.

"Nor do I. On occasion inconvenient, but they do make up for it."

"Because now you find they…help."

"I find them rather clarifying, yes."

Greg couldn't think of anything to say. He wasn't sure he wanted to have this conversation: not in public, not in front of Sharon, not anywhere. It was too much. "Oh. That's. That's good."

"It is."

He knew they were staring, but it took an extraordinary amount of effort to tear his gaze away. "Look," he said, gesturing with his head across the room at the first thing he saw. The two of them turned to see the woman with the champagne get up from kneeling on the floor, her new fiancé grinning ear to ear. It occurred to Greg belatedly that an _engagement_ was not perhaps the best idea for getting out of an emotionally-fraught scene with Mycroft. He cleared his throat. "Erm. Anyway."

"Aww!" Sharon said. "Get it, girl."

Greg avoided Mycroft's eye and ate his meal.

* * *

“I’ve been debating. I might, I know it’s Noir, but…" Sharon swallowed and glanced at Mycroft. "Listen, maybe you can give me some input."

Mycroft put down his fork, seeming intrigued.

"I suppose I could just look this up, but I sort of want the…I mean, I can't get opinions from books… Well, actually I can, but…" It was strange to see Sharon flustered, and it occurred to Greg that she probably wanted Mycroft to like her, and think she was intelligent. Greg wanted to give her a hug and explain that Mycroft liked her already; that expression of interest was not something Mycroft turned on just everyone. "I'd like _your_ opinion."

A pleased smile played around Mycroft's mouth. "On what, exactly?"

"I've started working on this Noir short. There's lots of room for artistic expression, and I'm quite close with the cinematographer. Is there… I mean. Okay. What's your favourite artist in terms of chiaroscuro?"

It looked as if Mycroft had been anticipating that question, which—knowing him—he probably had. "Gerrit van Honthorst. There's a clarity I really enjoy in Dutch Caravaggesque."

"Tenebrism? Is that right?" Sharon said, still a bit nervous, bless her.

"Yes, exactly. Not in the modelling, but the—"

"—Lighting, yeah. I'm not the first person to have looked at the Masters when thinking about Noir, I know, but I wanted to have a particular artist in mind. I'll look up Honthorst when I get home. Thank you."

"Of course. I'm pleased to have been a help."

"You were. I look forward to playing with the light sources. There's a book in it that—well, let's just say I plan a bit of an homage to Pulp Fiction."

With that, least, Greg could get a bit of a conversational toehold. "What, with the briefcase?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I apologise. I don't know it."

Two heads swivelled toward him.

"You don't know Pulp Fiction?" Sharon looked horrified.

"No, I'm—" Mycroft glanced to Greg as if seeking help. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Well, this aggression will not stand, man," said Sharon.

If possible, Mycroft looked even more confused. "Aggression?"

"That's rubbish. We have to fix this," Sharon said, leaning toward Greg. "What are our plans for tomorrow?"

"Well, you wanted to do paperwork—"

"Besides paperwork. That won't take all day. And if it does I'll shoot myself."

"Nothing set in stone, as far as I know. I had planned on going out for breakfast and doing a bit of shopping." Greg's gaze flicked to Mycroft's for a second then back to Sharon. "What are you thinking?"

"Watching a film. Obviously." Sharon turned the full brunt of her not-inconsiderable will on Mycroft. "Come over tomorrow and watch Pulp Fiction with us."

Mycroft looked a little green, but he put on a brave face. "I'm afraid I can't."

"It's Saturday. You have plans?"

"I planned to work."

"Cancel it."

Mycroft gave Greg another look, but Greg was staying well shot of this. A bit of discomfort would be adequate retribution for the haircut conversation, if nothing else. "Cancel it?"

"Come over. Dad will make popcorn and we'll have some beer and watch Pulp Fiction. Come on."

"I really can't—"

"What were we just saying about dropping work in order to satisfy obligations to family?"

 _Family?_ Greg stared down at his plate, hoping the thump of his heart wasn't as visible from across the table as it it was from several inches away. He watched his shirt move with every beat until it occurred to him that Mycroft probably needed saving. "Sharon," he said, and lifted his head. Mycroft's expression was completely blank. "Let him alone. If he says he's busy he means it."

Sharon screwed up her mouth. "I suppose." She looked between the two of them and speared a bite of food.

After a breath, Mycroft spoke. "It might be…interesting."

Greg blinked. "Interesting."

"Pulp Fiction really _is_ great," Sharon said, hope in her voice.

But Greg couldn't look away from Mycroft. "Are you sure?"

Mycroft firmed his spine. "Yes. Yes, of course," he said, raising a lofty eyebrow at him.

"There's no 'of course' about it." He and Mycroft stared at each other. He couldn't tell exactly what Mycroft was thinking, but Greg fancied it was something about Greg letting go of this particular line of inquiry, and Greg was more than happy to do so if Mycroft was. He was just surprised, is all. "Okay," he said.

"Fine," said Mycroft.

"So that's a yes?" spoke up Sharon. Her gaze was flicking between the two of them again like a spectator at a ping-pong match.

"Yes," Mycroft said.

" _Excellent._ " Sharon beamed. Greg assumed she was pleased that Mycroft had folded in the face of her iron will. Greg desperately wanted to talk with him about it, but he supposed all that would have to wait. He might be waiting a while, too; lord knows when they'd next have a chance to speak in private. Greg really wished Mycroft were staying over that night, but with Sharon there it might be awkward. For a moment Greg fantasised about speaking to Mycroft in hushed tones across the pillow with the comforting heat of their bodies shared between them, then he pushed the image away.

"Wear something comfortable," Sharon said, nearly rubbing her hands together in glee. "This is going to be a fun night."

Greg really, really hoped Mycroft agreed.

* * *

"You guys are so in luuurve," Sharon sang, fastening her belt.

"We are not," Greg responded as quickly as he possibly could, and steered his way out of the car park. His heart thundered.

They sat in silence for a moment before Sharon sighed. "I like him."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

There was no good way to say it. "Because nobody likes Mycroft."

"You do."

"Yeah, but." _I came to it honestly. Through sex._ "Normal people don't."

"I'm normal people?"

"Apparently not."

"Good." Sharon leaned against her window. "I like him. He keeps you on your toes."

"He does seem to try."

"Now there's someone to keep up with you."

"You mean someone for me to keep up with."

"Whatever," she said, trying for a light tone, forgetting that Greg could read her.

"He can very easily keep up with me, Sharon."

"Maybe in some ways, I guess. He does seem pretty smart."

"Oh, you think so?"

"But in others…he's so stiff." _You say that like it's a bad thing,_ a rogue part of Greg's brain muttered before he could zero in and nuke the thought from orbit. Fortunately Sharon was thinking along different lines. "It's lovely to look at, but I wonder whether you don't spend a lot of time explaining football scores to him. Or if he'd be appalled by some of the grosser photos you bring home from work."

 _You'd be surprised,_ Greg thought. "What does that have to do with keeping up with me, exactly?"

"Just…" Sharon sighed pensively. "I just think you both have things to teach each other. That's all. You make a really interesting pair."

"Interesting." That didn't sound good.

"Fascinating." Greg could hear the smile in her voice. "I look forward to seeing you both together tomorrow." Sharon paused, then added, "It might be even more entertaining than watching the film itself."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the screen there was a twist contest, but Greg couldn't hear the music over the thundering of his heart. He brought their hands to his chest and pressed the back of Mycroft's hand to his sternum. Mycroft's chin brushed against Greg's shoulder, and he made a small interrogatory noise. Greg kept his eyes front as if he were focusing on the film. His jaw ached._
> 
> It's the second day of Sharon's visit. For Greg, the evening is measured out in film, wine, and heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas Mazarin221B and BakerStMel do a stellar job making sure all the pieces I put down mean something, and make sure all the things I mean to say are of a piece. They are brilliant.

Greg set down the bags of shopping on the floor next to the sofa and stretched his back. "Jesus."

"They're not that heavy."

"Not separately, no."

"They're only clothes."

"And boots. And a new coat."

"I'm carrying stuff too, you know."

"You have young knees."

Sharon rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen. "What time is Mycroft due?" she said over the sound of the tap.

"Sometime near six, I think."

"We should have him come over early."

He blinked as he plopped himself on the sofa.. "Why?"

"I think it would be fun."

"He probably has work to finish."

"So do we. Tell him to bring it over."

"Why are you so hell-bent on hanging out with him?"

"I told you," she said. "I like him."

He sighed out a breath. "Fine. I'll ask. Get me a—oh." She appeared at his shoulder and handed him a glass of water before he finished the question, and he smiled at her. "Thanks."

She swooped down to bring the bags into the guest room as he texted Mycroft.

`Sharon has asked if you'd come over earlier. Doesn't seem inclined to take no for an answer. If you can get away early, or bring over work, you're welcome. We have paperwork to do too.`

He flopped back across the cushions to wait for an answer. It came almost immediately.

`Do you want me there?`

Greg blinked. `Of course I do.`

`It's not a given, Gregory.`

_I would have thought it was, now._ ` I wouldn't have asked otherwise.`

`In that case, tell me a time and what I can bring for supper. I do have work to do, but it will keep.` Greg's stomach rioted with butterflies. _Family?_

` Whenever you can get away, we'll be here. Cheeseburgers might be the thematic choice, but we can decide on that once we determine whether the film hasn't ruined your appetite.`

`I'll gird myself.`

Greg grinned. He needed to see that stupid, supercilious look of discomfort, as if Mycroft were hiding a handful of ice cubes in his mouth and didn't think Greg could tell. It was adorably naive. `You did agree.`

`I'm not backing out.`

`No you're not. Sharon would hunt you down.`

`I consider myself warned.`

"Well that's so adorable I might be sick. All over your head."

Greg looked up from where he was sprawled across the sofa to find Sharon staring down at him, looking amused. "Shut it."

"You look like a teenager."

He pushed up to sitting in an attempt to seem marginally less childish. "Texting doesn't exactly give one an air of adulthood."

"Nor does lying on the sofa with that soppy look on your face." She threw her jacket back on.

"Wait, where are _you_ going."

"There's an off-license on this block, right?"

"Oh no."

"Come on…"

"Absolutely not." Drinking with Sharon had never stopped being weird, but something about the idea of Mycroft being around for it made the whole thing even stranger.

"I'm not getting a bottle of tequila, Dad. Just some wine."

He narrowed his eyes. "Just a bottle of wine."

"To go with dinner."

"Oh yeah? What's dinner going to be?"

"Whatever," she said, heading out the door. He'd lost before he'd even begun.

* * *

They were sat at the kitchen table working on paperwork when Mycroft arrived. Sharon was on a bit of a roll; it was reminding him of helping her with her homework when she was a kid—comfortingly so—except nowadays she actually seemed inclined to do the work without being forced. He left her comparing notes on financial needs and opened the door.

He stopped short. "Oh."

"She insisted," Mycroft said.

Greg stepped back to let Mycroft's assistant—Amanda, Alice, April—through. "You insisted?"

"He didn't have all the hands he needed," she said. If Greg wasn't mistaken, there was more sincerity than usual in the omnipresent curve of her mouth. She set a laptop bag next to the coffee table. Greg saw that Mycroft had a carrier bag and a small paper sack. It didn't look nearly too much for one person to carry, which meant she was looking for an excuse to meet Sharon. Greg felt properly defensive, but before he could say anything Sharon was there, holding out her hand.

"Sharon."

"Andrea," said the assistant. Greg looked in time to see a flash of surprise on Mycroft's face. Was it possible that was her real name? The assistant's mobile was out as soon as the handshake ended and she strolled toward the door. "What time should I have the car ready, sir?"

Mycroft appeared stymied by the question. He looked first at Greg, then at Sharon, then at Greg again. "I'll phone."

"Good. It was nice to meet you," she added to Sharon, and gave Greg an amused eyebrow raise that set his stomach clenching. These days, his shoulder hurt every time they met.

When the door shut, Sharon settled back at the table. "Assistant?"

"Yeah," Greg said, holding his hands out to take Mycroft's coat. Instead of a suit, he was wearing soft brown tweed and a cashmere jumper, a combination that put Greg in mind of hunting dogs and nights in by the fire. On Mycroft it looked somehow so vulnerable that revealing it was like a strip tease. Greg wanted to ruin him against the wall.

Instead, he hung up the coat and tried to decide if he should even give Mycroft a kiss hello, what with Sharon right there. From the halting way Mycroft lifted his hands, it seemed he didn't know either.

"You _can_ kiss him, you know." Sharon was studiously filling in another form. "I'm not going to burst into flames."

"I did just see him last night."

She looked up at him and blinked dramatically. "You're kidding, right?"

Greg turned to Mycroft and smiled, his stomach squirming. "Hi."

"Hello."

Firmly reining in his desire, Greg stepped close to give Mycroft a gentle, chaste kiss. "How did it go today?"

"Lots of phone calls. Dull to hear about, I'm sure. I'm glad for the reprieve." He looked over at the kitchen table, which was completely covered with papers. "And you?"

"We went out for an early lunch at this vegan place Dad has been taunting me with," Sharon piped up, her eyes fixed on her work. "It was great. Dad hated it."

"I did not." Looking at Mycroft, Greg nodded an emphatic _yes I did_. Mycroft smiled.

"And then he got me some new clothes."

"That was nice of him." Mycroft didn't stop smiling at Greg.

"Yes it was," Greg said, not breaking eye contact, smiling right back. It felt as if there were a warm bubble isolating the two of them, in spite of Sharon.

"And then we came home," she said. "Oh—and I bought wine."

"As a matter of fact…" Mycroft hoisted one bag he was carrying. "So did I."

" _Excellent,_ " Sharon said.

He raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "You shouldn't have."

"You are not the only one allowed a rebellious phase." 

The smugness on Mycroft's face was absolutely adorable, and it renewed Greg desire to maul him. Instead he took the bag and set it on the table. "You're having your rebellious phase _now_?"

"All signs indicate yes."

Greg couldn't look at him for fear he might do something embarrassing, so instead he gestured at the other bag. "And what's that?"

"I took a chance."

While taking the bag from him Greg snuck suspicious glances at Mycroft's face, but it was unreadable. When Greg finally unrolled the top, however, the smell gave the game away before he'd even peeked inside.

"There is an Italian bakery. No matter what we end up with for our supper, I thought a fitting end would be—"

"Whoa." Greg peered into the sack. "How many types did you get?"

"Three or four. Of various types. I didn't know—"

Sharon had muscled Greg out of the way. "Oh my god, pizzelles. I adore you."

Greg felt heat in his cheeks. "You have a grateful audience."

"Apparently so." A smile quirked the corners of Mycroft's mouth but, bashfully, he looked away.

"There are other things in here, too. What are the round things?" Sharon said, poking through the sack.

"Zeppole," said Mycroft, wandering over to stand closer to the bag. Greg left them both and retreated to the kitchen to refill his glass of water. Mycroft continued, "Not entirely dissimilar to doughnuts but, I feel, much better."

"I'm sure."

Greg stayed in the kitchen for a breath, keeping company with his glass and the butterflies in his stomach before reentering the fray. Sharon was grinning ear to ear, and Mycroft looked distinctly pink. "Does that mean we should choose something Italian for our supper?"

"I'm not sure that's necessary," Mycroft said, but Sharon nodded.

"Can we get a pizza?"

Greg looked at Mycroft. He'd anticipated something far more…grand, but Mycroft seemed to smile without actually smiling. "I think that sounds excellent," he said.

"Are you sure?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Of course."

"Because we don't have to."

"I'm aware of that, Gregory."

Greg couldn't help smiling at the pointed, almost-insulted tone of Mycroft's voice. He had a flash of memory: a fancy home-cooked pizza, made by Mycroft himself. "Fine, then. Pizza."

"Yes."

Sharon was grinning.

"Well, of course _you're_ happy," Greg said, turning to her. "You get your way."

"Yeah, _that's_ why," she said, but then kept her mouth shut and sat to finish her paperwork.

* * *

Sharon was already settled into Greg's armchair when he finished laying out plates and napkins and drinks. Mycroft had consented to peeling off his jacket and was now floating between the kitchen and the sitting room with a glass of wine, soft in his jumper, looking a bit unmoored. When Greg wavered in front of the sofa they both hesitated.

"How do you want to…" said Greg. He gestured at either side of the sofa with his own glass.

"Should we take… I mean…" Mycroft seemed acutely aware of Sharon, and didn't finish his sentence.

"Why don't I just…" Greg sat on the left side, but still Mycroft wavered.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Sharon said, sidetracked by grabbing herself a plate. "Just sit how you usually sit. Do you honestly think I'm going to be scarred by you snuggling up on the sofa? Get over it. Just sit down."

Mycroft lowered himself to the far right side, then paused, then scooted a bit closer. "Should I…"

"Here, what if I…"

"I don't want to get in the way…"

"You won't. I can still see. Here."

"No, but you're going to want a free hand to eat. Why don't I…"

Sharon stared at them, plate forgotten. "What is wrong with you two?"

"Nothing," Greg said.

"Seriously. Just sit how you usually—" Something in their manner must have twigged a realisation, because she shook her head and blinked. "You don't watch television together, do you. You don't _have_ a 'usually'."

"Er."

"Are you _kidding me_?" She blinked some more. Greg scrubbed his face with his hands. "What the hell do you two _do_ with your time?"

There was no way Greg could explain ( _well, usually we go right to the sex, but sometimes we have a meal afterward_ ) so he blustered through. "We just don't watch telly together, that's all."

She looked completely uncomprehending. "I just. I have no idea what that's like."

"Neither of us are film students, remember?"

"Clearly."

"Sometimes we bring home work and do that together."

She blinked. "Jesus. You two really are a match made in heaven."

Mycroft looked as if he couldn't be more uncomfortable if he tried, and Greg busied himself getting the film ready. This was mortifying.

* * *

They'd eventually arranged themselves so Greg was partially leaning back against Mycroft's cashmere-clad shoulder, but they'd conceded to hold hands—which, halfway through the film, Greg was beginning to regret. Mycroft had draped his hand over the back of Greg's and interlaced their fingers, and he seemed to be focused on sussing out just what the hell was going on with the film.

Greg, however, couldn't pay attention to a damn thing else; he was surrounded by the scent of aftershave and warm wool, and Mycroft's fingertips were scattering Greg's focus to the high hills. He was dragging them lightly over Greg's palm, tracing small, light circles, painting shapes, and up until that point Greg'd had no idea the skin there was so sensitive. Every cell of his body was zeroed in on the touch like a hunting dog pointing to the kill, and his blood was being conducted, speeding through his veins to the rhythm of the stroke-stroke-stroke of Mycroft's fingertips. He wanted to shift in his seat. He wanted gasping, panting kisses. He wanted to push Mycroft down to the sofa and wrap himself around him and press their bodies together until sated.

He couldn't.

On the screen there was a twist contest, but Greg couldn't hear the music over the thundering of his heart. He brought their hands to his chest and pressed the back of Mycroft's hand to his sternum. Mycroft's chin brushed against Greg's shoulder, and he made a small interrogatory noise. Greg kept his eyes front as if he were focusing on the film. His jaw ached.

After a moment Mycroft seemed to understand. His ribs expanded against Greg as he sucked in a slow breath and he disentangled his hand to push the palm against Greg's racing heartbeat. Greg felt Mycroft's breath speed. He leaned closer to whisper three words into Greg's ear:

" _Nothing so casual._ "

Greg's world listed sideways for a moment, and his brain fogged. _Jesus christ._ He gripped hard onto Mycroft's thigh, as if its heat and strength were the only thing keeping him from reacting.

It was a sort of game that wasn't a game at all: watching the film while they melted into one another, grasping for control as emotion blazed through them. Greg fought to keep his face impassive. He hoped to hell he was succeeding.

The intensity finally eased when they all chuckled at something on the screen, so Greg took the opportunity to sit up; he needed a break after all the tension. He pushed to his feet and grabbed their empty bottle of wine. On his way to the kitchen he accidentally caught Mycroft's eye, and electricity flared between them. His heart jumped into his throat, and it didn't settle back down until he'd forced his shaking, unsteady hands to open up a malbec and grab the bag of Italian pastries.

When he sat back down, he put himself several inches away. Mycroft was sitting upright and close to the arm of the sofa, and when he leaned over to refill their glasses he seemed to take extra care not to touch Greg's knee. Handing over the wine glass, however, their fingers brushed, and a bolt of desire shot the way through Greg from his chest to his groin. Mycroft met his eye for a moment, but his gaze pulled quickly away. Greg drained his glass in short order and poured himself another.

Eventually, in a fog of desire and wine and heavy restraint, the film ended. Greg stood and weaved a little. Then he squinted suspiciously down at the bottles scattered across the table. "What did we do?"

"You guys wrecked a bottle each," Sharon said, and popped a bit of pizzelle into her mouth. "For being the guy lecturing me about buying tequila, you sure didn't seem to mind putting it away so—"

"Oh hush." Greg scrubbed a hand across his face. He peered at Mycroft with one eye from from beneath his palm. "Why did you let me do that?"

"I wasn't aware I shouldn't have." Mycroft unfolded himself from the sofa in one elegant movement and stretched. His jumper rode up a little, and it was all Greg could do not to grab it and blow a raspberry against his stomach.

Wouldn't have worked anyway. Too much fabric.

 _Ugh._ He shouldn't have drunk so much.

"How are you feeling?" he said.

Mycroft carefully picked his way toward the kitchen. "Fine. Mildly…er… Mildly affected.”

Greg didn't yet have an awareness for what Mycroft's tolerance was, or whether or not he was lying through his teeth. All Greg could judge was himself, which meant two facts: his attraction to Mycroft blazed and sang in his blood, and he was just drunk enough to be having serious trouble keeping his hands off him. The combination meant that this whole situation could become mortifying very quickly.

Fortunately, Sharon yawned and stretched. "Okay. That's it for me."

Greg narrowed his eyes. He was suspicious, but not enough to press it. "Don't you usually go to bed at two o'clock in the morning?"

"Busy day," she said, and smirked. "Lots of paperwork. Did things. And stuff. I'm exhausted."

"…Okay," said Greg. Mycroft came back from the kitchen with two glasses of water and handed one to Greg. "Well, sleep well, love."

"Staying for breakfast?" Sharon asked offhandedly as she picked up her plate and napkin—a bit too offhandedly. Greg's suspicion pinged. When Mycroft didn't answer, Sharon looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, I mean you."

"Oh," he said. "Yes, I understand, I just didn't expect…"

"Stay." She smiled. "Dad's gonna make me waffles."

"I am, am I?"

"Of course you are. You were elected."

"When does this whole, 'take care of your parents' thing kick in?"

"Next time," she cheeked, then turned the smile to shine on Mycroft again. "So?"

Mycroft blinked at Greg. "I really hadn't considered."

It was either the wine or the fact that Mycroft was caught wrong-footed, or it may have been both, but something made Greg smile. _Do._

Mycroft studied his face. "You're sure?"

"Yeah." The idea of falling asleep on Mycroft's chest was desperately appealing.

"Good," Sharon said. Her smile stretched from ear to ear as she headed for the kitchen with her dishes.

Greg took the opportunity to step in close to Mycroft. "You're sure it will be okay if you stay?"

"Are _you_ sure?"

"If Sharon isn't bothered…" Greg shrugged. "Stay."

"Okay."

"Please."

"I said okay."

Greg licked his lips. He spoke quietly. "I've never kissed you when I've had this much to drink."

Mycroft gave him his private smile. "I think you should."

"I will."

"When we get back to your room."

"Yes."

"Good niiight…" Sharon said on her way through the lounge. She waved, then slanted them a sly grin.

Greg stepped away from Mycroft. "Good night, love."

He saw her smile widen as she left the room.

Greg scanned the mess on the table, assessed it, and gave it up until the morning. "Bed?"

Mycroft was in mid-yawn already. "I will help you clean up."

But Greg snagged him by the elbow and tugged toward the bedroom. "In the morning. Let's go." Mycroft let himself be led.

* * *

Greg had formed plans, but they all evaporated once they tumbled into bed, their clothing stripped off and their teeth clean and the wine dragging Greg's eyelids very, very heavy. He crawled over Mycroft and collapsed onto his chest.

Mycroft stroked his fingers down Greg's spine. "You promised me a kiss," he said, not lifting his head from the pillow.

"I did." After a moment, Greg pushed up and delivered. It was languorous, soft and slow. Mycroft caged Greg's face with both hands. Greg felt his heart speed and his breath come short. Eventually, the kiss fell apart and Greg flopped back down, fitting his face into Mycroft's neck, panting.

"I don't feel comfortable with…" Mycroft said, and sketched a hand in the air.

Greg interpreted. "No. No, no. Of course not."

"Not while Sharon is here."

"Of course not."

Greg breathed in against Mycroft's skin. Lethargy poured through his bones, sweet and thick as treacle, and he felt himself flow over Mycroft, floating with wine and a steady spread of affection. Between the smell of Mycroft and the heat of his body, tenderness was making Greg's skin ache.

 _Mycroft._ Emotion built again, expanding in Greg's chest, and he furrowed his brow against Mycroft's neck. It hurt. He tried to suck in a breath, then another, but it didn't help; his lungs burned as if he weren't getting enough oxygen. He couldn't steady his breath.

Mycroft scratched his fingers through Greg's hair. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Greg nodded. "Yeah." He squeezed his eyes closed even tighter. The rasp of Mycroft's jaw against Greg's temple was so gorgeous his toes curled.

"You're certain?"

"Yeah."

Tentatively, Mycroft lifted his hands from where he was resting them on Greg's ribs, and began to stroke his back. Then his breath huffed out. He wrapped both arms around Greg and buried his face against his hair. Greg's stomach flipped. They clutched desperately, gasping, until their muscles began to shake. Mycroft's face pushed tighter against Greg's head.

" _Gregory_ ," he murmured. A tremendous amount of love pulsed in Greg's blood, all-consuming. Every cell in his body thrummed with it. The world spun. Greg bit back the words, because he didn't need to say them. Mycroft could read it from his whimper and his breath and the tremble in his bones.

He didn't think love was supposed to hurt this much.

He didn't think he would survive it.

He never wanted to let go.

Fortunately, Mycroft didn't let go either. He continued to hold Greg as the feelings echoed between them. Minutes passed. Little by little the tension slipped away, and slowly, gradually, soaking in the connection, Greg fell weak and exhausted into a wine-soaked sleep.

* * *

When he awoke, Mycroft was gone as usual. Greg luxuriated in the bedclothes for a while, trying to assess the extent of his hangover. Eventually he decided it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, counted himself lucky, and got up to use the toilet.

Mycroft and Sharon were already in the kitchen when he padded out, Mycroft instructing Sharon where Greg kept the bin liners while he pressed down the plunger on the cafetiere. The place already smelled of coffee.

"'Morning, Dad," Sharon said as she wrestled with the kitchen bin.

"'Morning." Greg nicked a sip from Mycroft's cup. The drink had already gone cold. "How long have you been up?"

"Not too long," said Mycroft, lying.

"He was up when I got up," said Sharon. "And that was about an hour ago.”

"Jesus." Greg knuckled his eyes.

"Which means we're starving."

"Give me a minute, for christ's sake." Greg fumbled for the paracetamol.

"I said nothing," Mycroft said. He handed Greg his own coffee.

Greg downed the painkillers and kissed Mycroft. "I didn't say you did." Sharon snorted and manoeuvred the rubbish out to where Greg's bins were. He ignored that she let the door slam behind her.

"You deserve a leisurely morning," continued Mycroft, and Greg moved in for another kiss.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Lucky. Do you have to work later?"

"Unfortunately."

"But you're going to stay for breakfast?"

"It's why I'm here, yes."

"Oh _that's_ why." Greg threaded his arms round Mycroft's waist and snuck in another kiss before Sharon came back.

"That's my rationale."

"Excellent."

Greg grinned and slipped away to bring his coffee to the table. "It looks like you're planning to help?"

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "Of course."

"Even better," Greg said as Sharon came back inside and went to wash her hands. He watched Mycroft pull out the ingredients for waffles, as familiar with Greg's kitchen as if it were his own, and Sharon began to clear the table of her paperwork. A warm glow spread through his chest. It hadn't been that long ago Greg had lain on his sofa bemoaning the loneliness of his life, but now here was evidence to the contrary: a lover making himself free with his kitchen, and a daughter wearing well the responsibility of her age.

The room rang with the sound of their conversation. It was something about Question Time, and Mycroft said something dry that made Sharon throw back her head and laugh. Greg smiled as he pulled out the eggs. No, his life wasn't empty in the slightest. And it was getting more full every day.

* * *

Greg drove Sharon to the station in the early afternoon, staving off the sadness with a spot of recreational bickering. Unfortunately for his nerves, however, the only topic that got any traction…was Mycroft.

“He fucking adores you.”

Greg made a rude noise. “Stop.”

“He does, though.”

“When did you start cursing so much?”

“What the hell do you care?”

Greg sighed. He stopped at a light and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Sharon.”

“You guys are so cute it makes me want to puke.”

“Er.” Greg blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Just…” Sharon sighed and leaned her head against the window. “I’m just really happy.”

“Ah.”

“You’re not gonna fuck this up, right?”

“Not…not on purpose, no.”

“Good. Because you two are adorable.”

“Well. Er.” Greg had no idea what to say to that. She made it sound as if they weren't grown men, but kittens.

“Plus, I mean…” With a sigh, Sharon rotated her head to look at him, still resting it against the window. “I’m really glad you have someone now. He'll take good care of you.”

“This conversation is making me incredibly uncomfortable.”

“He’d bring you soup and draw you a bath any time you wanted. You probably wouldn’t even have to be ill.”

“Why is _that_ always your gauge for someone taking care of—“

“He _adores_ you.”

“Sharon.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well.” _Stop._ He wanted it to be true. He wanted it too much.

“I’m not allowed to be happy for you?”

“Sure you are. I guess. But do you have to be so…” He shrugged, unsure how to word it. “…gleeful?”

“I could just pretend I’m not,” Sharon said drily.

Greg heaved a heavy sigh. “Never mind.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Am I— _No_.” He paused. “Yes. Of course I am.”

“Good.”

If he hadn’t had to keep his eyes on the road, Greg would have rolled them. “You want me to be embarrassed?”

“I want you to accept this is a good thing. It should make you happy.”

“It _does_ make me happy.”

“It doesn’t look it.”

“It does make me happy, Sharon. Of course it does.”

“You could act like it.”

“How the hell do you think I’m supposed to act?”

“Language.”

“Oh, for—“

“You could tell him you’re happy.”

“He knows.”

“You’ve told him?”

Not exactly _told_ , no. “You’ve only seen a fraction of his intelligence, Sharon. You have no idea the things he can pick up without words. He knows.”

“Some people do need to be told.”

“Not Mycroft. He can figure it out from the…way I hold my tea.”

It was Sharon’s turn to heave a sigh. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

At which point Greg changed the subject to Premier League football and hoped the subject didn’t come up for the rest of the the ride. While he was fairly sure he could have put her off the subject over the phone, it was annoyingly difficult to do so while she was riding in the passenger seat of his car.

* * *

At the station, Greg walked with her.

“Let me know everything’s going okay on the train?” he said.

“Of course. Stop worrying.”

“Unlikely.”

“You heading to work now?”

“Maybe. I have some paperwork I’d like to have done before I start the week.”

She snorted. “Thought so. You have fun with that.”

“Unlikely,” he said again, and smiled. He pulled her into a hug. “Thanks for coming,” he said into her hair.

“Thanks for putting up with me. And for introducing me to Mycroft.”

“You’re, er. You’re welcome.”

“I’ll see you in a few weeks?”

A few weeks? Oh right. Christmas. “Yep.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

She gave him an extra-hard hug and readjusted her bag over her shoulder. “Say bye to him again for me.”

No need to ask who ‘he’ was. “I will.”

“Good,” she grinned.

He stepped in to kiss her on the cheek before she walked away, then pressed a wad of bills into her hand.

"Dad," she chastised him. "What are you doing?"

"Just take it."

"I'm fine."

"Humour me."

She sighed as if the money were a burden she'd have to bear, then smiled at him. "Thanks."

“Remember: keep me updated how the travelling's going.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “Go away.”

He smiled. “Bye, love.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

The walk back to his car felt odd and empty and annoyingly quiet, and his throat was tight. On a whim, he phoned Mycroft.

“Are we having a bit of separation anxiety?” Mycroft asked, after their usual greetings.

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “Are you?”

“Separation from whom?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I should say so,” Mycroft said. Greg heard the tiniest smirk in his voice.

“Not Sharon, I assume. Though you two did seem to like talking about art, and I can't really do that.”

"She is remarkable."

"Suck up."

“Nonsense."

"You're just saying that because she's mine."

"No, I'm saying it because she's remarkable. I found her to be clever and charming. She has passion, and she has focus. And she…genuinely cares about you."

"And that's a point in her favour?"

"You know it is."

Greg slid his gauge of Mycroft's feelings a few ticks closer to 'love'. He wanted to touch him. Desperately. "Fine. I'll stop worrying if you liked her."

"In my experience, Gregory, that's not exactly how your worry works."

"I'll take your word for it, how's that?"

"Much appreciated."

Greg considered asking him if he'd be interested in seeing her at the Christmas holidays, but he wanted to steer far away from that topic for a little while longer yet. He didn't have the focus, and the holidays were a minefield. He jiggled his keys in his coat pocket. 

"I should get back to work. I…had a lovely weekend, Gregory. I'll speak with you soon."

"I'm sure." Greg missed him already. "Have a good day."

"And you as well." Mycroft rang off, and Greg slipped into his car. As he headed into the office he tried to arrange his thoughts for maximum work efficiency, but the tone of Mycroft's voice at the end was hijacking his focus; he'd sounded like he'd wanted to say something else, and Greg was immensely curious what it was.

This growing intensity with Mycroft made everything fraught, even down to watching that couple in the restaurant become engaged. If he'd known what Mycroft was feeling, Greg wouldn't have been wasting so much energy wondering. But he couldn't see how to call Mycroft's bluff or make him say the words without first saying them himself, and Greg admitted he wasn't really up for that. Not until he was certain how Mycroft felt.

And the facts didn't line up into one easy deduction.

For one thing, during dinner with Sharon, Mycroft had referred to them as family. But the next night he hadn't been certain that Greg would have wanted him there early—in spite of the fact that he had been invited, and in spite of how many times Greg had specifically told him he was welcome any time.

For another, he knew Greg loved him, yet he didn't seem inclined to say anything about it. But he hadn't been scared enough to flee, either. In fact, Mycroft's deduction had resulted in a bout of _incredibly intense_ sex. Perhaps he felt the same, but had reasons of his own for keeping mum? It was entirely possible that messy declarations made Mycroft uncomfortable. Or perhaps he didn't feel the same, but a simple discrepancy of feeling wasn't enough to drive him away, as long as Greg kept quiet about it? Was the fact that Mycroft hadn't fled evidence of his affection, or not?

So many facts, all at odds with one another.

It was also tough to reconcile the moments on the sofa with their clear lack of familiarity. Greg was 'nothing so casual' to Mycroft, and yet they didn't do much beyond sex and food. They didn't watch television together. They'd never showered together. They didn't know each other's favourite foods or books. They didn't finish each other's sentences. They hadn't even been together long enough to learn. Didn't all that contradict the idea of the two of them being in love? Perhaps the issue was that Mycroft needed familiarity in order to give up enough control to _be able_ to love. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

But Greg didn't seem to have needed familiarity. On the contrary, he hadn't _fallen_ in love so much as smacked headlong into it, painful but perfect, with an ache of completeness like a newly-set bone. And he'd fallen without having shared something as basic as a lazy morning together, waking up with Mycroft at his side.

This whole situation was overturning Greg's preconceived notions about the nature of lust and love. It didn't seem possible that they'd switched from one to the other, just like that. And yet.

And yet the night before had made something clear: the lush tension during the film, and then how they'd held each other afterward, betrayed a depth of feeling that couldn't be denied. The memories resonated deep in Greg's gut, attractive and addictive and enthralling. Greg could still smell Mycroft, could still hear him, could still remember the ache of affection that had flared so strongly it threw all his systems into overdrive, thickening his throat and making his stomach roil. And lord, how Mycroft had clung. Obviously, at least some of Greg's emotion was reciprocated.

Then again, that might only have been the wine.

Sharon thought there was something, though. Sharon knew him better than anyone except Victoria, and she saw things others didn't. With Sharon, you always got the truth. If she said she saw something between him and Mycroft…well.

The fact was, Greg couldn't be sure what Mycroft felt. More than an orgasm machine, obviously, and nothing so casual. And passion they had in spades. But beyond that, there was absolutely no way to tell. Not without saying the words.

Just the idea of that lit a small flame of terror in Greg's gut, and so he pushed his thoughts away and turned on Grandmaster Flash to a blaring volume. He sang at the top of his lungs along all the way to the Yard, needing the scour of a good shout and the comfort of nostalgia. Emotions were complicated, and there would be plenty of time later to mull them over. He really wanted to focus on his work.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg narrowed his eyes and studied him. So far Hopkins had been remarkably jovial about being minded like a child, but cracks were showing._
> 
> It was past time they wrapped up the Grange case. But if Hopkins already was starting to chafe at having Greg along for the ride, he was going to _hate_ the arrogant, swishy-coated detective Greg wanted to bring in next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks go to my betas BakerStMel and Mazarin221B, who make sure the twists twist and the turns turn, and make sure the path is pleasant to follow.

They'd snagged a conference room so that Greg, Hopkins, Donovan, and Kelly could have a common area in which to work the Grange case. Greg had stopped and bought a round of really good coffee to power them through what was already promising to be a frustrating Monday morning.

"Wait, wait, wait," Hopkins said. "Why do you think it's Turnbull?" he asked Kelly.

"Who gives their courier a key to their office?" she said.

Hopkins shrugged. "He also does some of their tech."

"And that makes it better? Why, who's your first choice right now?"

"Besides Neligan?" Hopkins stared at the board onto which they'd pinned a myriad of photos and case notes, and he bit his thumbnail. It made him look even younger than usual. "I dunno. Georgia, maybe. What are the current odds on it being those who found the body who did the deed? If her husband was really that horrible…"

"Vega was with her when she found him," Greg pointed out. "So does that change those odds?"

"Vega doesn't have a motive," said Donovan. "Does she?"

"Or means, or maybe even opportunity," Hopkins said. "She could be lying about her alibi, in which case Georgia would be lying, too."

Greg frowned. "How about we get both of them in again? Just while we're waiting for Neligan to take the bait."

Hopkins's spine froze, then softened. "Sure," he said. "I don't see how it could hurt."

Kelly went to make the phone calls, while Greg and Hopkins and Donovan stared at the board.

* * *

Melody Vega had sandy curls, an aquiline nose, and the orangest tan Greg had seen since the early 90s. She opened her big blue eyes even bigger, as if that way more innocence might pour out. "I don't know any more than I already told you," she said. "I promise."

"It's not good," Hopkins said. "Georgia's lawyer won't let her voluntarily speak with us, which is her right, but…if you can, please give us something. Help us help you."

Melody nodded. "I want to help."

"I'm sure." Hopkins straightened the stack of papers in front of him, perfectly squaring the corners. "And you two really were out walking the neighbourhood, and missed the whole thing."

She nodded again. "And we came back to…to… _that_." She shivered. "I've needed a prescription for sleeping pills since."

"We haven't been able to corroborate the story. You really didn't meet anyone else on the walk?"

"Nobody who can talk."

Hopkins looked at Greg. Greg looked at Hopkins.

"There were a few dogs," she continued.

The interview didn't yield much more than that.

* * *

The one with Georgia Grange, on the other hand, was a goddamn farce.

"My client doesn't have much to say she hasn't already told you," said Richardson, her lawyer, who was a large man with Māori features and an immaculately-tailored suit. The two seemed to be communicating wordlessly, seamlessly, and he seemed to be doubling as her physical bodyguard as well as her legal one. They had a very interesting energy. 'Interesting', meaning 'as helpful a brick wall'. Greg suspected the two of them had only bothered to come in so they could needle the Yard about the lack of progress with the case. "Peter Grange had many enemies, yes, so it could have been any number of people. She also suggests you look again at Randall Microsystems. They've been in and out of the courts three times, and no doubt they'll look for any chance to sabotage Abbey Corp."

"We've done that already, Mr Richardson." Hopkins was keeping a calm front, which was more than Greg could say for himself. The superciliousness of Richardson's voice was galling.

"I don't know what other help we can give, then."

"Georgia could tell me whether anyone might corroborate her alibi. She could tell us whether she'd seen anyone suspicious in the area, and she could help us prove that she did, in fact, phone for police straight away."

"You'd like us to help you clear her name."

"Yes."

"It sounds as if you'd like us to do your job for you. I thought you were meant to prove who did it, not harass those who didn't." Richardson straightened his suit and looked as if he were about to leave. Georgia leaned over and whispered something to him. "My client would like to direct your attention to your earlier comment about how many enemies her late husband has."

"If doesn't seem as if you're very broken up about it, Mrs Grange," Hopkins said. Internally, Greg winced. Georgia was once again sat straight-backed in her chair, her hair perfectly smooth and her cameo pendant prim and even between her collar bones. It may have been true that her expression was just as placid as her hair, but much as he might have had the thought, Greg wouldn't have said it aloud.

"I don't think it's any of your business what my client's state of mind is or is not. 'Seems' isn't quite your purview, is it? Nor is remorse necessary to prove my client's innocence." He stood.

"If we find she is hindering a police investigation—"

"Feel free to arrest her if you find she has been. In the meantime I think we've done more than enough to aid in your inquiries. We're through here. We'll only stand in your way."

Unfortunately, Greg had the feeling that was exactly what they were doing. He and Hopkins just couldn't prove it.

* * *

The next morning, Greg was on a before-work run when he got the call. It completely scattered his thoughts about Mycroft—where they stood, and how Mycroft felt—and he fumbled for the button for several seconds before he pulled over onto the side of the pavement and stopped trying to do three things at once.

"We've got him, sir," said Donovan.

"Who?" He propped a hand on a knee and attempted to catch his breath.

"Neligan. He was breaking out of the Grange house."

"Out of?"

"We watched the house. He'd gone into Grange's office through the window, and tried to leave through the back door. I think he thought he was being clever. He ran, too, not that he got far. I'd call him a shrimpy little thing, but that might be an insult to shrimps."

"Where is he now?"

"In holding. Hopkins is waiting to interview him until you get here."

"That's nice of him."

"He says he's meant to wait, so he'll wait. Seemed a bit grumpy."

"We all have those days."

"True. How's the run?"

He'd ask how she knew he'd been running, but the panting and street noise were probably a dead giveaway. "Fine. I'll finish up and head in."

"Don't rush on my account. Kelly and I are trying to clean up the mess with Randall, now that we have the actual suspect. They're none too pleased about our, er, implications at the press conference."

Greg grimaced. "Yikes."

"No kidding."

"Better you than me."

"Is this the place where you tell me if I pass my Inspector's exam I won't have to do drudge work anymore?"

"I make it a point not to lie about things like that."

She snorted. "I'll see you when you get here."

"Hey Donovan," he said, stretching his back. "Nice work." She was the best at finding people who didn't want to be found, the best he'd ever seen, and they all knew it, but Greg felt it was always nice to be explicitly told.

"Er." She cleared her throat. "Thanks, sir," she added, then did the telephonic equivalent of fleeing.

Greg decided to finish the circuit instead of just turning round and heading back. He dodged a few commuters and tried to get back up to speed, fighting to find exactly where he'd been in his thought process.

He couldn't remember, except for a few broad strokes: Mycroft must be in love with him. It was the only solution that fit all the facts. But if that were the case, and if he knew Greg loved him in return, why hadn't he said anything? There had to be a reason, but that reason eluded him. In the meantime, there was one fact that was absolutely, profoundly true:

This was way, _way_ too important to fuck up.

He would have to be patient.

Greg picked up the pace, running to escape the tempting thought of Mycroft's body against his own. He was only partially successful.

* * *

"I wasn't _actually_ going to do anything," Neligan said, biting his thumbnail as if he wanted it clean off.

"I'd really advise you to stay silent," said Rogers, the ineffectual lawyer he'd toted along then proceeded to ignore. The more mercenary part of Greg always liked those sorts of lawyers; they made his job a lot easier. They were certainly nicer than the lawyers who, like Richardson the day before, vigorously protected their clients' rights to silence.

"We have an awful lot of threats, here," said Hopkins. He paged through a serious stack of printouts.

"But…that's just something you say. To get results."

"According to who?"

"Whom," Neligan corrected. Then he looked appalled once he realised what he'd done. "Sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

Hopkins scowled. "I'm afraid, 'but I didn't mean it' won't amount to much in court. This makes some interesting reading. You're staggeringly into the red, and having some complications with your bankruptcy. You were caught breaking into the house. And your alibi for the time of the murder isn't…good."

"Why don't you explain to me what's going on," Greg said, trying to look as sympathetic as possible.

Neligan gulped some water. "My father had invested a lot of money through Grange. A lot. Which was a mistake, because when he died I found out that it was all gone. Grange had done something, but I don't know what. Not even my accountant could figure it out. My father's creditors came knocking and I don't have any money to pay, but some of these creditors aren't…the sort you say no to. So I was desperate to get some information from Grange. I even filed some complaints against him, but…well." He looked down at himself. He didn't seem like the sort of person who had the funds to be fighting in the same league as those who traded in million dollar increments—or to easily stand up to those who traffic in any sort of illegal 'financing'. "I don't think anyone was taking me seriously. But I need…" Neligan swallowed hard. "I need to get that money back, or something. Something. There are reports filed, about the fraud; you can check and see I'm not lying."

"I'm sorry to hear about it," said Greg.

"But it doesn't change the facts. You don't have a solid alibi for the murder," Hopkins said. "Pub receipts are easy to get around, and the bartender doesn't remember you. Add to it that Grange had a piece of paper with your initials on it, and it doesn't look good."

Neligan turned a sickly shade of green.

"If you're innocent," Greg said, "what were you doing breaking into the house?"

"Why did you run?" said Hopkins.

Neligan mumbled something at the same time Rogers warned, "Mr Neligan."

"What was that?" said Hopkins.

Shifting in his seat, Neligan shot Rogers a sidelong look. "Proof," he said. Greg frowned. "Once Grange was dead, there was no way I was going to get the information I needed about what happened with Dad, never mind get back any of the funds Grange stole. I know how these things work. Evidence gets tucked away and forgotten about. Filed. Lost for good. And then, once you had decided Randall was responsible—wait. Did you ever actually suspect Randall? Or did you just trick me? Not to say this is all about me, but this is all about me, isn't it." At the silence he got in response, Neligan buried his face in both hands. "Oh god."

Greg scooted Neligan's glass of water closer to him. They were interrupted by a knock at the door, which was followed immediately by Kelly motioning the two of them outside. They followed her into the little space which looked into the interrogation room through one-way glass.

"Tech found a folder in Georgia Grange's email that appears to have encrypted files on it. They haven't broken it yet, but judging by the fact that the folder is named "eros", we're guessing she was having an affair."

"Love notes from her husband seems like a stretch," said Hopkins.

"No kidding," Kelly said. "But their courier and tech David Turnbull is fit, single, young, and has the training to set up the encryption. More so than anyone else that Georgia might trust with her security. And no matter how we try, we _still_ haven't found anyone who can corroborate his statement that he was at that lecture on brewing. Shall I see if I can hunt down Turnbull to play our next round of 'You Are A Suspect'?"

Hopkins jerked a nod. "I'd been wondering why he had a key to the office, too. But if they were having an affair…"

"That's what I'm thinking. Anyway, we'll find out more if tech can manage to crack the encryption, lucky sods. I just wanted to let you know." She peered through the one-way glass. "Any further doubts about Neligan?"

Greg hadn't known Hopkins had had any doubts in the first place. Hopkins shrugged. "I still don't know how he would have known to find Grange in Georgia's office, if he _had_ been planning to gack him," he said. "It's not as if Grange was meant to be anywhere near there. And Neligan's story matches up with what we know of his financials. But of the four, Neligan is the one with the the worst alibi and best motive."

Kelly motioned toward the door. "Not anymore. I'm going to see if we can track down Turnbull."

"Thanks, Kelly," Hopkins said. He and Greg stared through the one-way glass, lost in their separate thoughts.

* * *

They didn't hold Neligan; there wasn't a solid reason to, and Greg suspected that when forensics came back they'd find he hadn't been anywhere near Georgia's office, only Peter's.

"If Turnbull had actually talked to someone at this ridiculous lecture on hops, he wouldn't have this problem," Greg said.

"Are brewers meant to be shy and retiring?"

"Why should they be?" Greg said. "They make alcohol."

Hopkins declared into the room like a stage actor. "For want of an alibi, the war was lost."

Greg snorted and threw his coat on. "Right. Let's go."

"Wait. You're coming with me?"

"I've been with you so far. Might as well finish this out."

"Well, that's…" Hopkins stood motionless for a moment, as if he were rebooting, then nodded. "That makes sense."

"Best not give the brass reason to get snippy, if we can help it."

"No, you're right."

Greg narrowed his eyes and studied him. So far he'd been remarkably jovial about being minded like a child, but cracks were showing. "You're itching to have this case back, aren't you." Hopkins lack of response—and the fact he'd been grumpy all morning—was all the answer Greg needed. "Tell you what. I'll come along for the ride, just as a matter of formality, and you do all the talking. I'll just be a lump at your side."

Hopkins's jaw softened. "You just want me to say that you're not a lump, don't you."

"It's that obvious?" They headed out, Greg pulling on his gloves.

"Only to anyone who's known you for a while."

"But I've only known you a week."

"What can I say." In a fluid movement, Hopkins snagged his own coat from the back of his door. "I'm a quick study."

* * *

They ran David Turnbull to ground at his gym. The woman at the front desk said he was in the weight room with a trainer, and at first even their badges weren't enough to convince her that she ought to let them through. She relented in the face of Hopkins's glowing hopefulness, however, and pointed all the way across the gym.

Turnbull was a tall, pale, blond young man who looked like any one of his peers, so much so that if he hadn't been wearing an Abbey Corp t-shirt, they might not have been able to pick him out. It was completely plausible that no one would have noticed him attending a lecture on brewing—or remembered him in a crowd at all. Judging by his gestures he seemed to be arguing with his trainer about the correct form for lifting something or another. Either that, or he was really enthusiastic about the starting mechanism for his lawn mower. 

"David Turnbull?" Hopkins said as they approached.

Turnbull's head snapped up and he caught Hopkins's eye. Then his gaze shifted right and hit Greg. He looked again at Hopkins.

He bolted.

There was an emergency exit behind him, and its door had long swung closed by the time Greg and Hopkins had navigated the gauntlet of rowing machines and exercise bicycles in pursuit. Hopkins vaulted a weight bench or two, and Greg manifestly _didn't_ , but his heart pounded more than the exertion merited and he grinned as he clattered down the stairs into the alley behind the gym.

He was going to miss this, if he got promoted.

With those long legs of his, Hopkins should have caught Turnbull much sooner than he did. But between the clear head start and the fact that Turnbull was wearing his workout trainers it took the two of them an embarrassingly long time to pin him down. They finally did, though, when he took a wrong turning and ended up in an enclosed alley without escape. He spun and looked between them.

"I didn't know! I thought they were legit!"

"Wait. What were legit?" asked Greg, as Hopkins manhandled Turnbull's arms behind his back.

He turned a bit sickly. "The…Bitcoins?"

"Bitcoins."

"Shit." 

"I'm going to have to ask you to explain," said Hopkins, steering him out of the alley and toward his car. "Under caution."

Turnbull didn't look a bit surprised.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Hopkins said. The interview room felt a totally normal temperature, but Turnbull was sweating. Sweating under questioning: Greg wanted to laugh at the cliché. "You ran because you thought we were after you for counterfeiting?"

David bit his lip, but he didn't get to respond any further before Sergeant Kelly came roaring in and yanked both Greg and Hopkins into the other room. Again.

"It can't be him, sir."

"No, they've explained it to me," said Hopkins. "The Bitcoin algorithm is—"

"I don't mean that. I mean the murder. It can't be him."

Hopkins stopped with his mouth halfway open and looked at Greg, then back at Kelly. "Ah."

"Yeah, he…" She pushed a straggling bit of hair back behind her ear. "The account name he's used for the counterfeiting proves that he was out in Chichester at the time. He couldn't have done it."

"What was he doing in Chichester?"

"The backstroke," said Greg, before he remembered his promise to keep his mouth shut from here on out. He gestured for them to continue.

Kelly looked sideways at him and blinked before pushing on. "The other bloke he'd been working with lives in Chichester. I presume that's why he hadn't come forward with this before."

"Better be a murder suspect than a confirmed counterfeiter?" Hopkins rolled his eyes. "So he's a moron."

"It rules him out. And Neligan could have been taking revenge, but then he'd had to have known Peter Grange was going to be out in Georgia's office. And if he knew _that_ , wouldn't he have brought a weapon rather than using one at the scene? Between that weirdness, and the fact that Neligan's story explains his financials, I'm inclined to say Neligan is unlikely and we should look elsewhere. Gee, I'm so glad we took the time to find him."

Hopkins's mouth twisted. "And none of this changes that neither Georgia or Melody had the strength or height to skewer Peter, never mind pin him to the wall. Guess it's time to go over all the evidence again." He looked at Greg.

"Seems like," he said.

Kelly was examining at Turnbull through the one-way glass. "Good looking as he is, I can't see Georgia having an affair with someone so…flappable."

"He's a courier. Maybe his package is large and well-wrapped," Hopkins said. Kelly and Greg stared at him, and he rolled his eyes at the look on both their faces. "What, like Greg is the only one allowed to make bad jokes?"

"I'm proud of you, grasshopper," said Greg.

"Oh, get off." Hopkins snorted.

"Nah, I'm not responding to that opening," Greg said, head waggling. "Too easy."

"Much as I'd love to listen to this comedy routine, I'm going to re-re-question Georgia," Kelly said, unimpressed by their sniggering. "Regardless whether she and Turnbull were having an affair, or if she could physically do it herself, she still has motive."

Hopkins wiped a hand at his smile, but it didn't entirely work; there was still a hint of schoolboy in the air. "Have at it," he told her. "Meantime, Greg and I will have another look at the evidence. There's bound to be something we're missing."

Greg felt more welcome in Hopkins's case than he'd felt all day.

* * *

Back in the conference room, Greg was chewing on a ballpoint and considering what he wanted for his dinner, while Hopkins stared at the board as if the secrets to the universe might be found there. Just as Greg had decided upon Thai, he was startled out of his skin by Hopkins's shout of triumph.

"Jesus christ," Greg panted, trying to get his mental legs back under him. "What the hell?"

But Hopkins already had his mobile pressed to his ear. "Mackintosh? Hopkins. Listen, I need you and Marley to go into the back garden and look at the pond. Yes, right now. Yes, I know it's cold. Yes, I'll wait." He huffed and bounced and didn't let Greg catch his eye.

"What's going on?"

"You'll see." After a minute more, Mackintosh must have started speaking again. "Yes, I know it's almost beginning to freeze. It's in shadow, so it's probably—never mind. Anyway, look at the water level. Is it above the moss line? …Yeah, greenery line, whatever. Yes? By how much? Excellent. Now listen closely, I need you two to dredge the pond. …Yes, dredge it. I don't know how, just make do. You're a smart man. Great. Phone me back when it's done. Yeah, thanks." He rung off, gave Greg a smug and excited look, then went back to looking at the board.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?"

"Nope."

For some reason, Greg was more amused than angry. Then _his_ mobile rang. Half expecting it to be one of the PCs asking if Hopkins was feeling okay, Greg answered it.

It was Mycroft. Greg's stomach flipped. "I hope I'm not interrupting you."

"I wouldn't have picked up if you were."

"Excellent. I find myself suddenly with a few hours free, and I was wondering if you would be interested in having dinner with me."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. I have something I think we should discuss in person."

With a flood of adrenaline, Greg cast a quick glance sideways to Hopkins's back, then faced the wall. "Something wrong?"

"It simply bears a face-to-face meeting. At, say, seven?"

If Hopkins hadn't been standing right there, and if there hadn't been so many people out in the corridor, Greg would have made him explain. But as it was, he could only wonder. "I'm in the critical part of a case. I don't suppose we could make it later?" Even before the words were out, he knew the answer. "But you already made reservations, didn't you."

Mycroft made a tiny noise which functioned as a laugh. "I did."

"Because you assumed I would say yes."

"It seemed easier to prepare ahead of time than to—"

"Yeah, like you did with the—" Greg wanted to avoid Hopkins's curiosity. He went for a less interesting word than _tux_. "Suit."

"As you say."

Greg supposed Hopkins might be pleased to have him out of his hair for a while. "That will be fine, then. I'll meet you there? Text me the address."

"Consider it done."

"Yeah, great."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, fine. Just sidetracked. It's fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. Seven o'clock it is."

"See you then."

Greg took a moment to stare at the wall and wonder what Mycroft wanted to speak with him about. Had Greg done something wrong? Had someone found out about their relationship before they were ready? Was Mycroft regretting the tux? What if he had bad news about Sharon? What if he had bad news about Greg? Was it about the promotion? What was so important Mycroft felt it should be done face to face?

Worries great and small thrilled through him before he realised he wasn't going to get a chance to address any of them until dinner that night, so he might has well not fret until then. He took a breath, shoved his phone back into his pocket, and turned to face the world.

Hopkins coughed. "All right, there?" he said.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you look a little pale."

"It's the middle of winter."

Hopkins chuckled. "Got a hot date?"

"I…yeah, I suppose."

"A date you weren't expecting to get?"

Thus the paleness, he obviously thought. Greg shook his head. "It's not a big deal." He started paging through the file of unencrypted emails from Georgia and Peter's accounts, curated by Kelly. "So I've been thinking about this—"

Hopkins's mobile went, and he sprang to pick it up. "Hopkins." The more the person at the other end spoke, the brighter his expression grew. "Yesss, excellent. Awesome. Don't touch anything else until we get forensics on it. …Awesome, thanks Marley." He prodded his phone and spun to Greg. "So check this out." He pointed to a photo on the board. "It hadn't rained. So why is this path in the back garden wet?" He chuckled. "Remember me saying Neesie hid all her shoes in our mini pond, so it overflowed and flooded the path? The same thing happened here. The water level is still too high—or, actually, it isn't anymore, because Mackintosh and Marley pulled up the missing artwork. Whoever was staging the burglary only took the stuff that could sit in water. That's why no books or paintings."

"So it probably was someone from the house, because they hadn't had time to stash it elsewhere."

"Or they wanted to keep it nearby. But was it Georgia? It could have been Melody, I guess."

Greg cleared his throat. "I had a mentor who used to say that the basis of detection is to keep asking why. Why don't Georgia and Melody have better alibis? Why would one or both of them have killed Grange that day, of all days? Why are they lying about the robbery?"

"So where are we?" Hopkins said, and started methodically ticking off points on his fingers. "Turnbull couldn't have done it. Neligan is unlikely. Georgia and Melody are providing each other's alibis, but motive or not, opportunity or not, neither of them is tall or strong enough to drive the sword all the way through a man and into the wall at his back. But it was almost certainly one of them who had staged the robbery," 

"Do you think they were hiding someone else's crime?"

"Someone else with access to Georgia's office, who had the height and strength to kill Peter?"

"Why not," said Greg. "There could be someone else. We've only just started getting a grip on this case. Murders aren't solved in a day." And then he had an idea that Hopkins was going to hate.

"But it hasn't been a day," Hopkins said. "It's been a week. The only person who solves things that fast is…" He trailed off at the look on Greg's face. "Oh no."

"He is the best choice if you want this done quickly."

"No way."

"Look, we still don't know who up top wants to pin this on Randall Microsystems, but I can bet they're not going be more patient as time wears on. The sooner we have confirmation who Georgia was having an affair with, where she and Melody were, whether they staged the robbery to cover over the murder, or what exactly happened to get that sword into Grange, the easier it will go. He may be a prat, but this is exactly in Sherlock's wheelhouse. And isn't this what you were curious about? Now you can meet him."

Hopkins didn't look convinced. "I feel like you're telling me you don't think I can solve this on my own. I'm not a Sergeant anymore, Greg."

"No, and I understand you've already been knocked down a peg just being forced to have me in on this." Greg looked at him sincerely. "But it's important to know where other people's strengths lie, because then they can make your job easier. And this is one of those times."

The muscle in Hopkins's jaw was tight, but he jerked a nod. "Fine, phone him. Or—wait. I should phone him. It's my case."

"It's your case."

Hopkins's mouth was a line. "Fine." He sighed. "Give me the number. Let's get this humiliation over with."

* * *

Sherlock said he'd meet them at the Granges' house.

"I don't understand why we couldn't just pick him up," Hopkins said as they arrived.

"He won't come in a police car of any sort. Don't ever bother asking."

"Why?"

"Long, _long_ story."

"Is it to do with his past? The drugs, I mean."

Greg looked sharply at him. "You've been reading up."

Hopkins shrugged off the scrutiny. "I like being prepared." He looked… He looked _nervous_. Sherlock's reputation may have preceded him, but now Hopkins would get to _experience_ him. Firsthand.

Or perhaps, depending on how this went, that should be 'have to' experience him.

As Greg argued about terminology with himself he began thinking about Mycroft, and as he began thinking about Mycroft, he had a tough time paying attention to anything else. Three days and two nights later and he still couldn't shake it: Mycroft clinging as if Greg were the only thing keeping him from floating away, and breathing as if he'd been in the grip of as much tumultuous emotion as Greg. The memory made Greg's stomach flip every single goddamn time he remembered it.

Mycroft had to be in love with him. He had to. And yet he was still keeping mum.

Was this what Mycroft wanted to speak with him about?

But surely he didn't want to admit his feelings while in public.

Why did his tone make the conversation sound so dire?

Should Greg be worrying?

Peripherally, he was aware that Hopkins was talking, but didn't manage to tune in until he'd begun to pace back and forth across Greg's field of vision.

"…would he have been out here in the wife's study, not in his own?" Hopkins said. "It doesn't make sense. So we don't know why Georgia and Melody might have done it, we don't know whether Georgia and Melody's alibi is true, and we have no idea how they might have accomplished the damn thing at all."

"Which is why you need me," said Sherlock, sweeping into the room. John trailed behind him looking far too cheery about the prospect of a murder-by-butterfly-pinning. Sherlock walked straight up to Greg and plucked the case file out of his hands without so much as a by-your-leave, paged through it, handed it off to John, snapped open his magnifying glass, and crawled underneath the desk. The entire operation took about ten seconds.

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, this is DI Sam Hopkins," Greg droned, more for form's sake than anything, since he didn't expect him to pay any attention. "Hopkins, Sherlock is the one with his arse in the air. John is the one looking pleased about it."

Hopkins held out his hand. Sherlock ignored them in favour of investigation, and John turned to give him a cursory handshake before getting back to helping Sherlock in some undefined way.

"Well. They weren't wrong about him," Hopkins muttered.

"You haven't seen anything yet," said Greg.

After a solid minute of ignoring them in favour of the floor, Sherlock stood and left the room. Greg sighed and followed, letting him lead them—like some sort of corvid-ish Pied Piper of Hamlin—out the door, through the garden, into the main house, around the spacious sitting room, past the kitchen, and then back out past the koi pond and kitchen garden into the study again.

He made another circuit there, then turned. He looked Hopkins over from head to toe, likely cataloguing what he had for breakfast and where he went to primary school, before frowning further. Then he spun away down the corridor to the back storage room. He was gone for a few seconds, then returned. He knelt down and studied the rolling visitor's chair that was lodged in the corner.

"Simple."

"Of course it is." Greg rolled his eyes.

"With whom Georgia Grange was having an affair, and who killed Peter Grange, are two interconnected questions."

"Yes, Sherlock. We'd figured that out before we asked you."

Sherlock stalked round the desk, which was set in the centre of the room facing the main door. "Bits of wood on the floor are from this corner of the desk, new damage. Black anti-rust paint chipped off on impact, could only come from the fire poker underneath the chair. Hardly the work of a burglar, however incompetent. But for Peter Grange, a drunk and violent man, it was just the thing to menace Georgia Grange when she sat in her chair. Anyone else would have escaped out one of the side doors long before it got to that point.

"Simple explanation: Georgia Grange was sitting in her seat when Peter came in steaming drunk, threatening her. There are plenty of other—and more satisfying—things for a drunkard to smash, and that vase shows he knew that, but this broken corner was done in anger. The likely source of his anger? Georgia Grange."

"If Georgia's alibi was crap, then Melody's alibi was crap," said Greg.

"They were the ones having the affair," Hopkins said. All eyes were on him. "It's in their unencrypted emails. The ones we can read between David and Georgia are friendly. No flirting, but close. Lots of long lunches and gifts. Why would they have kept those unencrypted if they felt the slightest bit guilty? But even her unencrypted emails with Melody are much more than friendly. There's nothing explicit, but if you're looking, and if you see so many photos of her all over this office… Georgia and David weren't having the affair. Georgia and Melody were. Whatever happened in this office, Georgia and Melody lied about their alibis to protect each other."

Sherlock frowned and stared. "Where did you say you were before?"

"I didn't." Hopkins lifted his chin and stared back. Greg didn't really want to get in the middle of their eyeline for fear he'd be singed.

"True. It was Thames Valley, wasn't it."

"And before that, America."

"California, if I'm not mistaken."

"Maybe."

On second thoughts, Greg wondered whether he really needed to referee between them at all.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "If you knew all that, then why am I here?"

"Because the two of them may have had motive and opportunity, but lying or not, they still don't have the height or the strength to drive a sword through Grange and into the wall."

"As you say, the two women had motive and opportunity, but no means." He waved a hand carelessly. "Except, of course, that they did."

Hopkins's scowl foretold a massive thunderstorm. "No they didn't. You haven't seen them. They're both slight and only average height. You can't make pronouncements when—"

"We've handled who, and we've handled why. Which brings us to your last question," Sherlock took a few steps backward. "How did they manage to pin a large, drunken man to the wall, without any defensive wounds or harm to themselves?" He pointed to the chair. "Size six shoe."

Hopkins frowned, but for Greg a light was beginning to dawn. Still, he let Hopkins handle his own case. "Melody said she'd changed the curtains last week."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look at it. Look. What do you see?"

For a moment, Hopkins stared at it. "A footprint."

" _A_ footprint. One. What would you expect if she were using the chair as a ladder?"

Greg tried not to smile.

Hopkins's expression wavered. "Multiple footprints. So she didn't use it as a ladder."

"And where was the sword taken from?" Sherlock said.

"The corridor between the storage room and here."

"Exactly."

"I don't—"

"Do I really have to hold your hand?"

"I don't want you to touch me at all," said Hopkins. Behind him, Greg just barely heard John snicker.

"Then _put it together_."

Hopkins cleared his throat. "Melody Vega is in the office with Georgia. Grange comes in. Melody hides in the back room. He starts smashing up the place, being aggressive, possibly threatening Georgia. At some point Melody comes out, stands on the chair, and…" He shook his head. "First of all, why would Grange just let her stand on the chair with a sword, without defending himself? And even if he would, she's still not strong enough."

"Is it a whole footprint?"

"…No."

"When else might you see a single footprint with the heel missing?"

Greg hid his smile behind his hand as Hopkins's expression transformed. He turned to Greg, blinked, looked at the chair, then looked at Greg again. "Oh, shut up," he said to Greg, then turned back to Sherlock and the chair. "She was running," he said. "She launched herself off the chair with the sword in her hand, driving it through him and into the wall. That's why the chair was in the corner; it wasn't pushed there, it rolled there as she shoved off."

Sherlock, for all his usual prickliness, seemed oddly pleased. "She could have killed him at any other time, and planned it, but this was spontaneous—and passionate, if it lent her the drive to—"

Hopkins interrupted. "Grange attacked Georgia for the last time, and Melody Vega defended her lover. Then they attempted to cover it up by making it look like a robbery, and they dumped whatever they thought would be safe in the pond."

Sherlock nodded: once, brisk. "Not _nearly_ as stupid as the rest." Hopkins smothered his pleasure, but it still shone in his eyes as he turned his back to the rest of them and he pulled out his mobile. Sherlock caught Greg staring at him and scowled. "What?"

"Nothing," Greg said, suppressing a chuckle. He nodded goodbye to John and headed for the door. He had a date to get to.

"Where are you going?" he heard Sherlock say to his back.

"This isn't my case. And unlike you, I know when it's time to go."

"Why were you even here, then?"

Greg stopped at the threshold. He smirked to himself and called over his shoulder, pushing the door open. "No reason at all."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Mycroft reached the table Greg was struck with the the impulse to stand, as if Mycroft were a fine lady and Greg were more debonair—and more importantly, as if they'd somehow been transported backward in time forty years. He did not pull out Mycroft's chair for him, either, though he thought about it._
> 
> _"Hey," he said, like a complete fucking moron._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas Mazarin221B, BakerStMel, and WearItCounts have done a stellar job this week in particular, making sure I'm telling the story that I want to tell, and making sure that I'm doing it the best that I can. I am immeasurably thankful for them. Beyond words.

There was a bit of traffic on the way to the restaurant, so Greg had time to think. And the more he thought, the more he worried about what Mycroft wanted to say to him. Did this have anything to do with Sharon's visit? The timing was suspicious. Had he not had as good a time as he'd said? Greg _had_ thought he sounded strange on the phone Sunday afternoon. Was this related to that?

Or perhaps this had to do with the way Mycroft had clung to him as they drunkenly fell asleep Saturday night. It had certainly seemed as though he'd been blazing away in the same crucible of emotion that Greg had been going through. Did Mycroft want to talk about that?

Greg gripped the wheel hard as traffic eased up again, and took a deep breath. Then a second one. First, hear what Mycroft had to say. Then react like an adult human being. First one, then the other.

He turned the stereo up so loud the vibrations drowned out his nerves, and tried not to think at all for the last leg of the drive.

* * *

In spite of the traffic, Greg was still fifteen minutes early. He sat in his seat and tried very hard not to fidget as he clicked through several articles on his phone without reading them, checked to see what the Yard's Twitter account had been posting, and debated trying to download a game. By the time he looked up to find Mycroft being led in a weaving path through the restaurant, the edge of Greg's worry had worn away enough that he could recognise his own relief at Mycroft's presence; he was a drink of cool water for a parched man. Greg's heart sped. He was wearing a grey suit with accents of pale yellow, and his pocket square had some sort of goldenrod-coloured edging, and the whole thing shouldn't have worked but it did. It looked fucking fantastic.

Greg wondered when he'd started paying attention to shit like that.

When Mycroft reached the table Greg was struck with the the impulse to stand, as if Mycroft were a fine lady and Greg were more debonair—and more importantly, as if they'd somehow been transported backward in time forty years. He did not pull out Mycroft's chair for him, either, though he thought about it.

"Hey," he said, like a complete fucking moron.

"Good evening to you, too," Mycroft said, settling himself with more grace than Greg was likely to feel all night. They didn't go on actual dinner dates very often, and here they were on their second in a week. They ordered drinks with very little conversation cluttering the air between them, and Greg was glad for the distraction of the menu to cover over the fact that he was too nervous to find anything good to say. Once they'd decided, however, there was nothing for it. He had to come up with _something_.

He opened with, "How was—" at the same time that Mycroft said, "I wanted to—" They stared at each other for a beat. Greg's heart raced.

"Go on," Mycroft added.

He shook his head. "It's not important. What were you going to say?"

"I insist."

Greg looked across the room at the giant fishtank, and wondered why the decorators had ever thought that a good scheme. Fish gave him the willies to start with, and the whole thing was even weirder because there was a great deal of fish on the menu. It seemed barbaric, somehow. Taunting. "I was going to ask how work was."

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you—"

"No, stop. I'm not asking for details. Just if it's going well."

Mycroft relaxed. "In that case, it seems to be fine."

"And the wrinkles from last week are ironed out? The trouble, that's—"

"Better. Thank you."

For a few strained moments, they both watched the servers flit by.

"And what were you—" said Greg.

"I wanted to thank you again for a lovely weekend," Mycroft interrupted. "It was something I'll treasure for a long time."

There was a fluttering in Greg's stomach that was completely unrelated to his hunger. "Same."

"The film was…interesting."

"You hated it."

"I didn't say that. I only said it was interesting. And it was something Sharon wanted to share with me, with us."

"And that's a point in its favour?"

Mycroft took a moment to answer. "You know it is."

_Because he thinks of us as family._ "Oh."

After a drawn-out moment, Mycroft shifted in his seat. He looked away. "And now you're uncomfortable. I apologise."

"It's not you. It's…" Scrambling for an excuse, Greg gestured at the busy restaurant.

"Ah."

"Sorry."

"I only thought you should know."

"I do, now." Greg smiled, trying to scatter Mycroft's discomfort. "Should I tell her you found it _interesting_?"

"If you like." Finally, Mycroft met his gaze again, and the line of his mouth softened into a half smile.

And now they were out of conversation again. Greg just wanted to touch him. Touching him was a calming experience. And these emotions were terrifying. His mind spun for a new topic. "You look nice, by the way."

"Do I?"

"You know you do."

Mycroft sniffed. "I'm not a complete egomaniac."

"Just a partial one?" Greg bit down on a smirk.

"Measured in stones."

"Or microlitres."

"Just so. When taken as a percentage of the whole, I think I'm doing very well."

"You are. I'm proud of you."

Greg smiled, comforted by the familiar back-and-forth, and when Mycroft looked up he expected to see a matching light of humour. Instead, however, Mycroft's gaze was achingly, _tremendously_ soft. Greg's hand twitched to reach across the table and take Mycroft's, but they were out in the open in a decent restaurant, and he didn't think it would have been welcome. He tucked it into his lap instead.

The intensity in Mycroft's eye brightened, and it looked as if he were about to open his mouth, but just then the waitress appeared to take their orders and the moment was squashed.

Still, Greg's heart raced, and he really hoped that light had something to do with what Mycroft wanted to speak about.

But he would have to be patient.

* * *

"I was sorry to pull you away from your case at such a critical moment. I assume since you agreed to meet, that means there won't be any trouble," Mycroft said.

Greg had forgotten he'd even told Mycroft about that. While he finished his mouthful, he waved it away. "No, turns out it's fine, actually. We solved it. Well, I say _we_. The only thing I did was get Hopkins to work with Sherlock."

Mycroft's eyebrows flashed up with an inscrutable look. "And how did that go?"

"Better than expected. Looks like Hopkins isn't going to take any of Sherlock's shit, and even seemed to impress him a little. It was a sight to see."

"Was it." Mycroft continued to cut his meal into pointlessly-small pieces, which seemed to support Greg's theory that he was nervous about something. Greg seriously considered asking for the wine list.

"It was. It actually turned out to be quite a fun case. Even got a bit of exercise by chasing after a suspect. I'm going to miss running after people, if I'm promoted."

"You'll still be able to go into the field."

"Sure, but not nearly so much. Donovan was bitching about drudge work, but I didn't have the heart to tell her it just turns into paperwork as you go up the ladder. Decided I'm going to have to go running more often to make up for it, I think. Just to get my heart rate up, since I wouldn't be chasing 22-year-olds anymore."

"Twenty-two, today, hm? And you…did catch him?"

"Yeah, it was—heeey, wait." Greg mock-scowled. "I'm not that old." Mycroft took a very pointed bite of his fish and said nothing, but he didn't really need to. Greg still broke under the lack of questioning. "Actually, Hopkins caught him." Mycroft huffed a laugh, and Greg waved his fork in his direction. "Listen, _sir_. None of that. I could run circles around you. When's the last time you ran? Anywhere?"

"Mmm." Suddenly Mycroft's plate seemed very interesting, and he chewed very intently. "Perhaps you're right."

Greg went back to his meal, head shaking. "Ridiculous."

"What is?"

"The image of you. Running."

"Yes. I'm quite sure that it is," Mycroft said, very dry.

He wouldn't look up to see that Greg had been joking. He only went on eating precise bites of his meal as if Greg hadn't said anything at all. Greg's own dinner turned into an iceberg in his stomach.

_Shit._

* * *

"Sally's sister is having another baby. She's about four months along, but they've been keeping it quiet because of her job."

"That should be…nice. I presume they're happy."

"Over the moon. It was sort of an accident—they'd thought they were done—but when they got the results back, apparently…" Greg stopped at the strained look hiding in Mycroft's eye. "Yes?"

"Nothing." Mycroft shook it off. "Nothing."

"Ah. You hate this."

"Not at all."

"Yes you do. What they hell do you care about the family life of my sergeant's sister? This is domestic, and you hate it."

"Gregory…"

"No. You can't _make_ yourself give a shit about things you don't give a shit about."

Mycroft seemed very interested in his food. "Please continue," he said lightly.

"You're a terrible liar when you don't want someone to believe you."

"I think you'll find that means my lying is effective, actually."

"I suppose." Greg watched the top of Mycroft's head for a while, before Mycroft sighed and set down his fork rather heavily.

"You expect me to find these sorts of things distasteful," he said. "Gossipping. Small people's emotional lives. I don't need to know, and rather would not."

"Ah." It was not surprising to have it confirmed, but hearing the words aloud put paid to any thought of Mycroft busting out with some marvellous declaration of his feelings. Greg tightened down his jaw.

"It's the pedestrian pap all Holmeses hate," Mycroft said.

Greg wished to hell he hadn't brought it up. There was a note of anger in Mycroft's voice that Greg had never heard before, something flat and frustrated and cold.

"Domesticity. Plebeian tripe. Why go on?"

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Drivel. Why waste my time?"

"I wish to hell I hadn't said anything at all."

The tension at the hinge of Mycroft's jaw was all the visual cue Greg had that Mycroft wasn't simply studying his water glass; he was otherwise frozen. When he took a deep breath to speak, Greg jumped in to cut off what he was certain was only going to be more of the same.

"Listen, I'm going to run to the men's. If she comes near while I'm gone, see if she'll bring us a bottle of wine?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, do you?"

The flatness in Mycroft's voice sent Greg's heart down near his shoes. "I…" He swallowed. "No. I suppose not."

He fled for sanctuary.

In the echoing tiled hall, presided over by the blessed saint of ignoring others and being ignored, Greg took refuge in one of the stalls. He tucked his hands into his armpits to stop them shaking, and stood and breathed and tried to figure out just where it had all gone so wrong.

_"I have something I think we should discuss in person,"_ Mycroft had said.

Replaying that phrase in his head, Greg was struck cold with fear. He realised the worst possibility was something supported by the coldness in Mycroft's voice, because "we have something to discuss" sounded an awful lot like a Mycroftian version of "we need to talk".

It was entirely possible that Mycroft planned to break up with him.

It was a logical deduction; after all, hadn't Greg been wondering why Mycroft was still sticking around even after discovering Greg's feelings? He had clearly just been waiting for Sharon's visit to be over before making his move. Or perhaps Sharon's visit had _decided_ his move.

Feelings were messy, and relationships were messy, and it would make perfect sense if Mycroft had finally decided he'd had enough of both. Of course he would prefer to have the ease, tidiness, and mastery of his life back. This was Mycroft. Order and control were sacrosanct.

Obviously this wasn't the night for Greg to be open about his own turbulent feelings; that was clear. He didn't want to bother Mycroft any more than he already had. If Greg could skate by being as inoffensive and pleasant as possible, and sidetracking Mycroft whenever it looked like he was about to say whatever he wanted to say, then perhaps he'd get a stay of execution.

Then again, although his first instinct was flight, he was a grown man. Perhaps it would be kinder just to let it happen. Grip firmly to the plaster and pull it off in one quick rip. It might take some skin away, but that would heal in time. Mycroft had been gracious enough himself, back when Greg had broken it off outside the funeral home several months ago. Surely Greg owed him some grace in return.

If they hadn't been in public, Greg would have been free to explain all the things that made this a stupid decision. They'd only just got started. They hadn't had a chance yet. How _dare_ Mycroft just decide to quit before they'd even been able to see what their relationship was going to be like when it wasn't shiny-new. Mycroft didn't know. Things between them didn't have to remain messy. They could be amazing. They could be perfect.

Breaking up would be a fucking _idiotic_ decision.

Perhaps it was wise of Mycroft to do this in public; it would be impossible for Greg to get down on his knees and beg him not to do this. Which he would because he wasn't going to let go quietly. He would make changes, if necessary. See him less, perhaps, or see him more? Whatever Mycroft needed.

Which was ridiculous, he realised, but a horrible sense of desperation had his guts in its grip, and he wanted the feeling to stop. He would rearrange his life if only—

Acceptance. Anger. Bargaining. He was going to run through all the stages of grief before he even heard what Mycroft had to say.

Greg had no idea how he was meant to finish his dinner.

* * *

Mycroft didn't look at him when he got back to the table, and the whole endeavour took on the kindly air of a firing squad. Greg managed to settle his napkin on his lap and take a sip of water without knocking anything over, but he fumbled when he picked up his fork, and his formerly-excellent fish now tasted of macerated notebook paper and ozone.

The silence lasted barely a minute before Greg chickened out and picked up the wine list. He wanted a drink, regardless whether Mycroft thought it a good idea or not. He held the thing at arm's length to get it to focus, then closer, then as far away as possible, then sighed and decided that its tiny typeface was as good a sign as any that the universe thought Mycroft was right. He wasn't digging out his damned reading glasses again just to read the wine list.

"It's not that I mind that I need them more and more," he said, fighting to inject some lightness into evening. He set the menu aside. "I know it's stupid to be so obstinate about it, but I can't help feeling like this is something I'm meant to have grown out of. As if that's going to happen. They're just such a pain in the arse, and that's before I have to decide on a frame." He reached for a bread roll. If it wasn't to be alcohol, it was going to be carbs.

"Consider yourself lucky. If you had a large, drooping shelf on which to balance them, you would find the task even greater."

Greg was putting butter on the bread, health be damned. "Stop it. I love your nose." Then he realised what he'd just said, and looked up.

Mycroft's gaze was fixed on his face, as if magnetised there. His own expression was a perfect blank. "Do you."

_You know I do._ The words caught in Greg's lungs; he couldn't find the air to breathe them, and he still couldn't stop looking at Mycroft's face. In his peripheral vision, he saw Mycroft's throat work, and his chest expand as he sucked in a breath.

It wasn't the face of certainty. It was quite the opposite. It was the face of someone who didn't know what to do, and that was something Greg could work with. It was a crack in the surface that Greg might wedge open, if only he could find the right words.

He fumbled for something to say, but his thoughts felt like pulling in an armful of squirming kittens: the more he tried to gather them, the more escaped. Greg stared into Mycroft's eyes. Clear and wide, and filling with the most magnificent brightness. By this light his eyes matched his suit, and they made Greg's heart go soft with affection. _You are so beautiful._

The atmosphere in the room thickened, pushing in on all sides. It became hard to breathe.

Mycroft licked his lips, drawing Greg's attention. He looked at Mycroft's mouth and wetted his own lips. When he met Mycroft's gaze again, Greg was shocked immobile by the intensity.

"Gregory," he said, "I…"

Greg hung there, waiting on the next word, queasy and tasting bitter adrenaline. He managed to jerk his head in a stifled nod. His pulse was hot in his palms.

"I wanted to…"

He didn't break Mycroft's gaze. He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to; it felt as if eye contact were the only thing driving them forward.

Greg held his breath, just in case the less he moved the more likely Mycroft would be to spit it the fuck out. His muscles ached with tension. Their world slowed, then stopped.

Around them the business of the restaurant spun, but he and Mycroft were cocooned in their own connection: quiet, soft, still.

Just when Greg thought they were going to sit there all night, Mycroft's shoulders softened. "I wanted to speak with you about something."

"…Okay." Greg's heart beat so hard in his throat he presumed everyone in the place could see it.

"I don't want you to… I mean, I want to make certain that… Well." Mycroft cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "Apologies. I'm having trouble finding words tonight. What I mean to say is this: I know you have concerns about attending the gala together, it being such a public venue and filled with the sort of people who are likely to be there. And truthfully, I have concerns, too. Therefore, I feel it's only right, as the time approaches, that I give you… How should I put this." He swallowed, and licked his lips again. "An out. I'd like to give you an out, if you'd like to take it. I don't want you to feel that you've been pressured into anything, and I'd hate to make you feel uncomfortable. That's the last thing in the world I'd want."

In shock, Greg sat for a moment, not having a fucking clue how to respond. That wasn't what he had expected at _all_.

"Gregory?"

He shook it off, feeling like someone had let the air out of him. "No, no. God, no. That's fine. Perfectly fine."

"I'm sorry, which…"

"I _do_ want to go. Absolutely. Especially after all the trouble and the expense—"

"I don't want you to worry about that. Truly. If you don't think you'd be comfortable—"

"You said you had concerns too. Does that mean you don't want to—"

"No, of course not." Mycroft frowned. "As I said, I just want you to be…comfortable."

"I'll be fine." Queasy with unneeded adrenaline, Greg forced a tight-lipped smile. "I will. I promise."

"Okay. Fine. That's fine." Mycroft jerked something that passed for a nod, stared at the tablecloth for a moment, and picked up his fork.

Greg sat for a moment, then spoke up. "Is…that it?"

"Is what it?"

"Is that all you had to speak to me about?"

Mycroft looked up, frowning yet again. "Yes," he eventually said, making Greg feel about an inch tall.

"Oh." He tried to laugh at himself. "Okay, that's fine. I just thought… That's fine."

"Why, is there something you'd hoped I would say?"

Greg's heart was back to a sprint. "N-no. No, nothing."

"Okay, then."

"Yeah. Fine."

Mycroft went back to eating. For a few heavy moments, Greg stared at the top of Mycroft's head as he addressed his meal. When it seemed like nothing else was forthcoming, Greg mentally gathered himself, picked up his knife and fork, and pushed on with his evening.

He didn't believe that was what Mycroft had been intending to say. He didn't believe it one bit. Nor did he believe that everything was going to be fine.

The hammer may be yet to fall, but that didn't mean it wouldn't.

* * *

The further they came to the top level of the multi-storey car park, the lower sunk Greg's spirits. He didn't have a hope in hell that Mycroft would want to spend the night with him, and he was afraid even to ask.

That didn't stop him from imagining the comfort of curling up against Mycroft's chest.

He wondered if he would ever get a chance to do that again.

A chill breeze picked up, and Greg stopped walking for a moment to pull on his gloves. When he was finished, he made the mistake of looking into Mycroft's face. The expression there was heartbreakingly gentle and somewhat sad. Greg thought he might be sick with apprehension. He braced himself when Mycroft opened his mouth.

"I'm afraid I have a very long, very early day tomorrow, so I need to go home."

Somehow both relieved yet still upset, Greg nodded. "I understand. Tomorrow night, then?"

Mycroft twitched a nod. "Perhaps."

It was late at night, and the car park was nearly empty, so Greg scraped together some gumption and stroked his hand down Mycroft's spine from his shoulder blades to the top of his arse. His leather gloves slipped on the fine wool of Mycroft's coat. "Come on." He steered him diagonally across toward his car. Then stopped. "Wait. Where is your car?"

Mycroft's eyebrows floated skyward. "On its way."

"So you walked me to my car."

"Of course."

"Of course." Greg huffed an absolutely humourless laugh and unlocked his door. "Well, thanks. I guess I'll…see you…" He waved his keys around. "…Sometime."

"You will." Mycroft looked to the corners of the abandoned lot, pulled Greg sideways ten feet to the right and two feet back—presumably out of some sightline—and took his face in both hands. "Thank you."

Greg's heart pounded hard in his throat, and between that, the adrenaline, and the full stomach, he was feeling deeply ill. But when Mycroft leaned in, Greg leaned in.

The kiss was soft, slow and tremulous and moving, for all that Mycroft seemed to be holding back. Desperate, Greg stepped further into it; if this was going to be one of their last kisses Greg was going to make every goddamn second count. He poured love into every breath and touch and sliding movement, into every grasp, into every shift. He poured love into every quiet sigh. He kissed Mycroft as if somehow through the power of _wishing_ he might convince Mycroft that no matter what his issues were, Greg wanted to be there with him: thick and thin, through rough and smooth. Powerful. Powerless.

Mycroft's coat had trapped in his body heat, and at that small distance he was radiating warmth and musk and the fading threads of his cologne. It was so familiar that it made Greg's bones hurt. Disappointment and worry rose up into his chest and settled in for the long haul. Finally Greg couldn't draw the kiss out any further, and Mycroft slipped from his hands. "I'll speak to you tomorrow," Greg said.

Mycroft looked a little foggy. Behind him, his car emerged from the ramp. He must have read the flicker in Greg's face, because he took a step back. "Please," he said.

Greg stared at his lips, overwhelmed by longing. When the car pulled up alongside them and Mycroft stepped away, Greg actually took one halting step to follow before he caught himself. He stood irresolute as Mycroft opened his door, looked him over one last time, and disappeared inside the car. They drove off. Greg was left there. Alone, but haunted by the trouble in Mycroft's eyes.

Everything hurt.

* * *

He had to sit in his car for a few minutes, just existing, before he declared himself fit enough to drive. When he got home he immediately stripped off and turned the shower on scalding. It wasn't nearly as nice as the ones at Mycroft's, but if he turned the temperature up high and stood there long enough it got the job done. All he could feel was the low, dull ache that came from catharsis deferred.

A buzz of impatience joined the ache. Impatience and frustration. It had been too many days since the night they'd spent clutching and desperate in each other's' arms while Sharon was over, and Greg was feeling the lack. He wasn't horny, not exactly, but he longed for Mycroft's touch. His smell. His smile. The softness of his skin and the rasp of his breath.

He craved the well of emotion that came from Mycroft clinging.

Sluicing water down his arm, Greg reached out, grabbed his phone from the shelf, and nestled it into the soap dish he'd mounted at just the right height and angle. He pressed record on the video app. Only half thinking, Greg squeezed his eyes shut and imagined that Mycroft was there: heat and wet, hair and skin. He didn't have the benefit of experience, but he could extrapolate well enough: Mycroft had given him a thorough demonstration of the way he'd masturbated in his office shower the week after they'd first had sex. The edges of that memory had softened over time as Greg had called it up over and over, and technically they hadn't been showering together, but the memory was enough to fuel Greg's fantasy. It was the first time Mycroft had performed vulnerability for Greg, and the tenderness Greg felt when thinking about it was amplified with his love.

Greg propped one hand against the wall and rolled himself against his palm. The memory resonated and echoed with the feel of his touch, and he lost himself in it.

_"Three times that week,"_ Mycroft had said, delicately draping his trousers over the towel bar and smoothing out the wrinkles. His boxer briefs were already tented. _"It had been so long since I'd allowed myself to be touched that my body was fixated on more. I'd been in the habit of taking care of my needs once every week or so, during my morning shower, just enough to get by, but there was a…resurgence."_ He let his pants fall to the floor, and Greg remembered his mouth watering with the urge to drop to his knees and press a kiss to the hard cock and dark bronze curls. But he'd kept to himself: it was Mycroft's show, and Mycroft was calling the shots. And those shots appeared to involve stepping into the shower, coating his fingers with lubricant, and diving into pleasure. His hand moved slickly, light and quick, and before a minute had passed Mycroft's knees were buckling with the bliss of it. He'd supported himself with one hand against the far wall underneath the showerhead as his breath came faster and harder.

_"I would think about that day, and I would make myself come,"_ panted the Mycroft in his mind. Greg remembered the purple flash revealed by his hand as it whipped along his cock in a pale blur.

In the shower, Greg put himself in view of the video camera and tried to match the movement in his mind: the intensity, the speed. He felt the tension knitting between his legs and imagined the pained wheeze that had echoed in the shower stall as Mycroft lost himself in a frenzy. Long minutes passed as Greg mirrored that pleasure.

_"I couldn't focus. Ohh, you made me need to come,"_ Mycroft had whimpered. _"I needed to come. I needed to come."_ He'd had to prop himself harder against the wall. _"I needed to come." His breath rattled, sped, and then stopped. His knees buckled, and with a groan he shot onto the shower wall, striped the drain, and spilled across his fingers. He slumped against the tile wall, clutching himself, aiming the last pulses of orgasm onto the drain as he caught his breath._

Greg remembered Mycroft's tremendous shiver as his nerves resettled themselves, and the peaceful relaxation on his face. He sped his own hand faster as his chest grew tight. _Mycroft._

A new image rose up: Mycroft on his knees in his sitting room, the edge of the posh settee pressing into Greg's calves as Mycroft sucked and moaned and sucked. Greg's arousal turned heavy, rich, and his groans joined the memories in his head.

"Oh, yeah," he vaguely heard, and the sound was hollow against the tile. The pleasure made everything thick and sweet, and he kept his hand moving as a slow orgasm began its first hesitant contractions between his legs. The image in his mind morphed yet again, this time to the last moments with Mycroft in his bed, thrusting between slim thighs from behind, realising with no warning that he had fallen for him.

He remembered the heat they made. He remembered tenderness beneath his teeth. He remembered the exquisite pain in his chest as adoration rolled through him. "Oh. Yeah. Here we go. Oh. Yeah. Ohh, love. Ohh my love. Ohhh I love you."

He remembered coming so hard he'd lost control of his limbs.

The pleasure went mind-blowingly dense, almost too much, before tipping over into light. "Yeah. Yeah. _Yeahhh…_ " His mind echoed with Mycroft as he came all over the tile and his hands and the spiral of water going down the drain. Helpless against the lightning storm of hormones, he leaned against the wall, still holding his cock in his hand, twitching. "Yeah." He floated with the release.

A memory formed of a hundred separate moments formed into one, and he was awash with it: nuzzling against Mycroft's throat as he caught his breath. Sweat cooling on his skin. Everything weak with effort and relaxation. Pressing himself to Mycroft's body and existing, timelessly. Quietly. Together. The serenity of connection.

Eventually the reverie faded.

_I love you_ rang in his ears.

The hot water beat on the back of his head and down his neck. It washed away the last drops of euphoria, and he found himself in the midst of a cascade of revelations. The orgasm had left him clear-eyed, and he realised just how monumentally stupid he'd been.

For ages.

Mycroft might love him, or might not. He might even have said it during dinner, if not for the awkwardness—the awkwardness which both of them had contributed to.

Greg had been nervous, not least because they didn't do the dinner date very often, and so going on one with Mycroft was still daunting. But Greg also had been nervous because of the way in which Mycroft had asked: mysterious, portentous, heavy. It had set Greg up to be nervous, and Greg had grasped the opportunity with both hands. It had also seemed obvious during dinner that Mycroft was nervous, too. The combination of the two meant that the evening became a festival of awkwardness which had scuttled any chance that Mycroft would unbutton and fucking spill it.

Because whatever it was he had been meaning to say, it clearly wasn't about the gala. Why would he suddenly be shy about that? He'd never been shy about it before. No, it had to be something else.

And Greg had a fairly good idea what it was.

Talking about their feelings in public was never going to be a good idea. Not for Mycroft, at any rate. But by this point Greg didn't much expect that he was any more likely to talk about them in private, either. It was time to stop waiting.

If Greg wanted the air cleared—which he desperately did, if only to avoid another awkward evening—he was going to have to stop being a chickenshit bastard about the whole damn thing. 

Unflattering as it was to admit it, he'd been a tremendous coward for weeks. He'd been letting his fear be an excuse. He'd been too afraid to say anything, so he let himself believe Mycroft didn't love him in return. He'd been too afraid to say anything, so he let himself believe things would happen as they happened. He'd been too afraid to say anything, so he let himself believe it was down to Mycroft to say it all first—even though Greg was the one with greater experience in this area.

If he wanted the ice broken, Greg should be the one to do it.

After all: Mycroft had already sussed out Greg's feelings. If he was going to do a runner, he would have done it already. And things weren't going to get less awkward the longer things dragged out. Greg was just going to have to scrape together the courage.

Greg swallowed hard. Admitting he was afraid didn't make the fear go away. But at least there was a name to it now:

He was absolutely fucking _terrified_.

Going up against an armed suspect was one thing. Defending his home from a burglar was another. But if he could manage to take his own advice, to face that supremely-controlled, supercilious, arrogant, _gorgeous_ arsehole and be vulnerable, that'd be a goddamn miracle.

His heart leapt to his throat.

_The video_.

He stabbed it off, horrified with himself. Not only was meant to be getting _away_ from "just an orgasm machine", but he'd said _I love you_ , out loud. He'd resolved to say it, sure, but a pornographic video wasn't the way to make a declaration like that. Mycroft deserved so much better. Their relationship deserved so much better.

There would be another way, and Greg would find it. Eventually.

Resolved, wrung-out, and scared beyond reckoning, Greg finished showering and made certain the video was thoroughly erased. Then he dropped himself into bed without bothering with clothes.

It was going to be a long, cold, restless night.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Without another word—and calmly, as if his brother wasn't about ready to storm back and drag him on, as if they hadn't just had an emotional near-miss—Mycroft strolled after Sherlock and John. He didn't look back._
> 
> _Greg didn't expect him to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of my betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and WearItCounts, I feel confident that this chapter hits all the notes it should. They're superb, and I am so thankful for them.

He had a monstrous headache the next day, and the weather seemed to be willing to back him up: it was cold and foggy, the sort of weather that crawled like icy breath on the back of your neck and wriggled freezing fingers into every gap in your clothing it could find. Regardless, when Hopkins phoned him up as he was heading back from lunch, he did his best to push his bad mood to the side—if for nothing else but the entertainment value of witnessing Sherlock annoying someone who wasn't him.

"Hey, I need a hand here," Hopkins said. "Are you nearby? I'll text you the address."

"…What's he done this time?"

Hopkins snorted. "You just assume it's—"

"I can hear him in the background." Sherlock was going on and on about something, and though Greg couldn't pick out specific words, he sounded annoyed. As per usual.

"I didn't call him in on this case. But he and his entourage just showed up anyway and are demanding to see the scene."

"His _entourage_?"

There was a muffled shouting, and Hopkins came back to the phone with a furious, "Please tell me you're available."

Greg tried not to laugh at him. He reached for the bottle of paracetamol. "Five minutes."

" _Thank you_."

Entourage?

* * *

This entourage, it turned out, consisted not only of John, but also Mycroft.

Greg tried not to look as nervous as he felt. 

"Are all of you blind?" Sherlock was doing his dance. "Look. Dark pores in an x shape on his hand, meaning he went to a club or a bar. Smell of coal tar in his hair means he attempted to mask the cigarette smoke with medicated shampoo. Traces of eye makeup in the corners of his eyes. Luke Edwards may have been a family man, but he also liked a bit of a party. I wouldn't be surprised if you found cocaine in—"

"Sherlock, get down to it." Greg tried to steer him toward a point so he could get out of there. Mycroft had been quiet and deferential, and it was disturbing. The paracetamol had barely made a dent in his headache.

"It wasn't the wife. It was a crime of passion, but it wasn't the wife. She knew about his affairs—"

"His affairs?" Greg and Hopkins said in unison.

"—But she didn't care. No, this was done by someone who wanted it to _look_ like a crime of passion. They knew precisely what they were doing."

Greg lost track of the rest of the conversation; Mycroft had broken off and now was making a slow, deliberate circuit of the room. When he disappeared down the corridor toward the back of the house, Greg followed.

"What are you doing?" he said, finding him round one corner in an alcove at the top of some stairs.

Mycroft didn't startle. He opened up a door that appeared to be a dumping spot for brooms and coats and shoeboxes. "The Mambo."

Greg wondered if that mental image was meant to disarm. If so, it was almost working. He didn't say a word while Mycroft ran his fingers along the rear wall of the cupboard, but when he found a keypad which made the entire panel swing back to reveal a space behind, Greg grabbed his shoulder before he went through. "Seriously, what the fuck are you doing? How did you know that was there? And the code?"

Mycroft stood. "If this had been a normal case, I would not be here."

"Well. Obviously."

"There are things I'm not at liberty to discuss."

"Seriously?" Anger flared red in Greg's chest. "I thought we were past this."

"My relationship with you doesn't automatically increase your security clearance."

"But Sherlock and John—"

"It couldn't have been helped. They were brought in before I had a say in the matter."

"So I'm meant to just…accept that."

Mycroft sighed. "Fine. I don't think it would do any harm to tell you this: the case involves a colleague, and the stakes are very high."

"It won't _do any harm_?"

Mycroft looked supremely uncomfortable. "Inspector, this is just one of those times when you have to accept I _cannot tell you_."

"Fine." He waved him on, but couldn't look at him. "Have fun with your secret tunnel to Narnia. I'll keep the coast clear."

"Afterward." Mycroft grabbed his arm and pulled him close enough murmur directly into Greg's ear, raising gooseflesh. "After all this. After everything is set to rights again. Then I'll tell you."

"You sure you won't be breaking nineteen different kinds of security law if you—"

" _I'll tell you._ "

Finally, Greg met Mycroft's eyes again. His stomach jumped at the intensity he saw there. "Fine. Afterward."

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft swallowed, then ducked into the cupboard.

Greg tried not to think of it as a bizarre metaphor and stood by to make sure no SOCO rounded the corner.

* * *

As Mycroft and the Baker Boys were leaving, Greg decided that was his cue to leave as well. He told Hopkins to phone him if he needed anything else and followed them out, but before they walked off he pulled Mycroft to the side.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" He murmured, studying Mycroft's face from inches away to read his expression, and there was his answer. "You _didn't_ find what you were looking for."

"I didn't."

"And this is a problem."

"Very much so."

"And I can't do anything to help."

Softness blurred Mycroft's features for a brief moment. "I need to focus on this investigation."

"MYCROFT," Sherlock called back. He and John were already on the pavement, heading god-knows-where.

"You'll tell me, then," Greg said. "If I need to do something."

"Of course."

"But there won't be anything."

"I don't expect so."

Well, at least he was being truthful. Greg's intuition twanged like a bowstring. "Be careful."

"I will."

"Promise me, please."

The tiniest hint of smile lifted Mycroft's mouth, and his eyes softened again. "For you."

They stared at each other for several heartbeats. Mycroft's gaze took on a depth and a shine, and Greg's mouth went dry. _Say it,_ Greg thought, but swallowed instead. This wasn't the best place. Or the best time. "Go do your work," he managed without croaking.

" _MYCROFT_ ," Sherlock yelled, glaring at them from thirty feet away.

Without another word—and calmly, as if his brother wasn't about ready to storm back and drag him on, as if they hadn't just had an emotional near-miss—Mycroft strolled after Sherlock and John. He didn't look back.

Greg didn't expect him to.

* * *

The next day, heart pounding like it hadn't since before they started dating, Greg sent a text.

`Just wondering if you were free tonight. I'll make dinner.`

He had to wait an hour for a response, during which he actually felt nauseated. Apparently Mycroft made him feel like a teenager in all sorts of ways, and not just the good ones.

`Not tonight, I'm afraid. But perhaps tomorrow.`

The next day, however, his answer was similar.

`Apologies,` Mycroft texted. `A problem has come up which is time sensitive, and I won't be able to get away until it's solved. I'll phone when I'm through.`

It was as near as 'don't call us, we'll call you' as Mycroft got. Greg wondered if this had anything to do with what he was doing at Edwards's house, but in a way Greg had promised not to ask. Instead, he swallowed down the welter of feelings—nerves, disappointment, fear, and a traitorous bit of relief that he didn't have to put on the I Love You production just yet—and considered his response.

It could only be one thing.

`Please.`

And he left it at that.

* * *

As long as no one killed anyone, he had Saturday off. Which was good, since he was meant to be in on Sunday and he needed the time to sit and stare.

But before he got a chance for that, he had to go for his second tuxedo fitting.

He hadn't been looking forward to the shiny double act of Jason and Jeremy, but in this—as in so many things in his life—it wasn't always the thing he thought he needed that he turned up actually needing. And those two turned out to be exactly the right people at the exact right time.

"Well don't _you_ look like shit," Jeremy said when Greg ran in. "Did you give up on sleep and shaving altogether?" He seemed so eager for the entertainment of the explanation that he wouldn't have looked out of place with a popcorn and a large Coke in his hand.

"Sorry I'm late."

"And the sleep thing…?"

Greg grimaced. He didn't have an adequate explanation for that. Not one he could give, at any rate.

"Hey Jason," said Jeremy, "come see what the cat drug in. We're meant to clothe it."

"Oh my god," Greg muttered under his breath, but he couldn't smother his amusement. It felt like everyone at work had been on tenterhooks around him the last few days, and it was nice not to be handled with kid gloves.

"I presume you'll do a better job shaving for this shindig you're going to," Jeremy said as he gave up on the entertainment value of Greg's dishevelment and pulled out the pieces of the tuxedo-in-progress instead.

Greg shrugged. "That's the plan."

"Do you _have_ a plan?"

"…More than what?"

Jeremy gave him a Look, like he was letting the whole side down. "Does your plan involve whatever cheap razor you ordinarily use? Cheap, oily shaving foam? One quick pass and done?"

Greg blinked.

"Listen, I'm not going to let you ruin the look we're crafting by showing up looking like a hedgehog. Let me send you home with some things."

"Oh, no. I'm not going all… _Barber of Seville_ on myself with a straight razor and a strap. And no brushes and mugs. I'm not _that_ old."

"I think you mean Sweeney Todd, dear."

"It's still not happening."

"You don't know what you're missing."

"I'm happy to stay in the dark."

Jeremy smirked, undaunted. "I'm going to send you home with some things. A nice razor, and a high-quality cream. And a lotion for after. And you're to at least try the brush. You'll be amazed at the difference."

Greg huffed. "Fine."

"I promise you, it's worth the trouble. For you and your date." Jeremy raised an eyebrow, jabbed him with a very pointed look, and went back to readying all the parts of the nascent tuxedo.

Greg tried not to blush all the way down to the floor.

* * *

He didn't pretend to understand all the things that were going on with the fitting, so he felt free to zone out while Jeremy worked. He went on autopilot, lifting and shifting however he was directed, all the while planning what his and Mycroft's "I Love You" dinner was going to be and how he was going to say it. Greg was buttoning up his shirtfront while deciding whether he needed to make a playlist or had an appropriate album already, when he was startled by a voice at his elbow.

"Are you happy with the shirt?" Jason said. Greg hadn't even noticed him come into the room.

"Oh, er. No. I don't know." It wasn't the sort of thing he'd come to expect from a tux shirt, lacking ruffles or tucks or adornment of any kind. "Aren't people going to think it's too…modern?"

Jeremy clucked, smoothed a hand down his arm, and this time when he gave Greg the Look, it was softer. For a moment, Greg saw a flash of what people meant when they said someone had an old soul. "Don't worry so much about what other people think, dear. What do _you_ want?"

There was almost no question. The shirt made him look sharp and sophisticated: a kind of armour he thought might be beneficial at this thing.

"I think…" He stared at himself in the mirror. "I think this is perfect for me."

* * *

That night, Greg was staring round his empty flat, wishing bitterly that Mycroft were there, when he had a sudden revelation:

He was going about this all wrong. He was going for perfection, and it didn't need perfection. If Greg was going with the theory that Mycroft had been planning to confess his feelings at the restaurant and had chickened out because it wasn't going smoothly, perhaps that should be Greg's cue that waiting for the exact right moment meant it was never going to happen at all.

Greg had read an aphorism somewhere which kept bubbling to the top of his mind: 'it doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to be.' He wasn't sure that was it or where it was from, but it seemed remarkably good as a mantra for this situation. Eventually Mycroft would be available, and they would see each other, and Greg would just _say it_. Clear the air. Accept the fallout. Move on.

No matter what happened afterward, it would be better than sweating in limbo.

* * *

Being in the office of a Sunday usually gave Greg something else to focus on besides his own life; Saturday nights being all right for fighting meant that Sunday mornings at the Yard were often full of stories. However, the morning was quiet and he had nothing on his plate but paperwork, so while he'd awoken from a dream far too early and gone into work hoping to be sidetracked, he couldn't seem to shake it.

It, or the headache that rode alongside.

_Drinking a beer out in the garden with his dad. A late spring breeze ruffling his father's floppy brown fringe. Greg leaning back and taking a pull from the bottle._

_Mrs Kelkar calling out the kitchen window, a warning about ruining their Christmas dinner. She was doing something that reeked of smelting metals and burning oil._

_"Don't ruin that turkey," said Greg's father, and out in the tidy brick enclosure, sitting at the cheap aluminium and plastic table they'd had when Greg was a teen, the two of them laughed._

There'd been nothing particularly memorable about that evening, when it had happened. It hadn't been the first beer he'd had with his father, and it certainly wasn't the last. It hadn't even been Christmas. But something about that spring evening stuck with him, as a memory that echoed with the particular feeling of _Dad_ , and over the years it had ceased to be a sad memory. Now it was worn and bittersweet, and apparently fodder for dreams. Dreams and memories, sometimes tied to something that was going on in his life, and sometimes simply because he missed his father.

What Kelkar was doing there this time, though, he had no fucking idea. That was new.

He supposed this time the dream might have something to do with Christmas coming. Or perhaps, if he strained to reach for a reason, a memory of his father could possibly be his brain coughing up guilt about his propensity to keep certain feelings to himself. Waiting until it was too late. Or perhaps his brain had just wanted to remind him that he was older now than his dad had been when he'd died, which was a strange thought that hadn't got better over time. Or perhaps it was something as obvious as wishing he could tell his father about Mycroft. Mycroft had rapidly become…immensely important to him, and that seemed like the sort of thing you tell your dad about. He wondered if his dad would have evolved over time on the subject of Greg dating men. He really hadn't been keen on it, but then, he'd never got the chance to change.

His dad had been gone far longer than Greg had known him, but there was still room to be wistful.

Before he told his father how much Mycroft meant to him, however, he ought to tell Mycroft.

And after squaring things with Mycroft, he _really_ ought to tell his mum.

Twisting with guilt, he grimaced, reached for a folder, and tried not to think about that potential conversation with his mother. She was going to make a fuss about him dating someone—probably a good fuss, but a fuss all the same—but when she found out how long they'd been dating without him telling her he was never going to hear the end of it.

He should probably tell her soon, then.

After he told Mycroft.

But it was 10:30am on a Sunday, so instead of telling anybody anything, he was going to phone up Donovan and pester her about work. "Hey Donovan," he said when she picked up. "The Hemingway case. We ever get an ID on who Mrs Kelkar saw visiting the house?"

* * *

At about 4:30 that afternoon, he got another annoyed phone call from Hopkins that functioned as a decent distraction. By that point he'd had sufficient caffeine that he felt clear-eyed for the first time in days.

"Sherlock again?" he asked after the barest of greetings.

"He says he's discovered something that contradicts our solution on the last case. Listen, do you have a copy of the file with you? I accidentally left mine in the office, and I'm more than halfway home. He says it won't wait."

Frowning, Greg shuffled through the pile on the corner of his desk. "Yeah, what do you need?"

"The address for Nathan Garrideb. He was one of the witnesses I interviewed."

It took Greg a minute, but eventually he found the name Hopkins was looking for. He read out the address, then frowned; several of the crime scene photos had slid sideways out of the pile, and one in particular had caught his eye.

Greg rubbed his mouth and stared at it.

"—Lestrade? Yea or nay?"

"Hm?"

"I asked if you were on for football later? Assuming that this revelation of Sherlock's goes quickly."

"Oh. Er…" There was a row of small, free-form metal sculptures on Luke Edwards's mantelpiece. Greg had glanced them while he was there, but hadn't really noted them. In the photo, however, they were pinging something in his brain. "Hey, do you remember the metal sculptures on Edwards's mantel?"

"Huh?" Hopkins said, clearly confused by the change of subject. "No, why?"

"I don't know yet." Greg stared and tried to figure out why they looked familiar.

"Well, let me know about football. I'm actually almost at Garrideb's house already, which is good because I don't think I have the patience for traffic today. I'll see you later, maybe?"

"Mm."

Greg didn't really notice hanging up, and only came back to himself while he was carrying the photo down the corridor toward Donovan's desk. "Hey, do you know who made these sculptures?" he asked her. She was eating Cup A Soup and staring fixedly at her computer, and it took her several seconds to look up.

She shook her head. "Just art," she said. "Maybe look on the home goods websites or something. You're finally decorating your flat, I take it."

"No." He stared at them. "I think they're important."

"Do you…need me to run them down?" she said, not looking particularly excited about the idea.

"Mm." He turned back for his office. "I'll let you know."

There was a copper one, and two that looked like aluminium. He considered having Donovan grab samples to figure out what metals they were, then put it to the side to let his hindbrain process why they seemed important and whether he'd seen them before. It was probably best he get back to his own paperwork.

His mobile rang. "Lestrade."

"Do you have Mycroft?"

It took Greg a few moments to figure out who it was. "No, I don't 'have' him," he told Andrea. "Why don't you have him?"

"I suspect I'm not meant to."

"Is this about the case he was working with Sherlock and John?"

"…No," she said. Whatever passed for a poker face over the phone, he assumed she ordinarily had a spectacular one. At the moment, however, it was failing.

Greg cleared his throat. "Well, I'm going to go worry now. If you would have him ring me when he turns up, I'd like to shout at him for ducking his security."

"You and me both," she said, and hung up without saying goodbye.

Greg tried to focus on going through the phone records of the men who had lived at Mrs Kelkar's for the next while, but worry was buzzing like static in the back of his mind, and he was having a hell of a time focusing. He turned on the scanner for some white noise, and it helped a little. Still, he found himself looking for excuses to get up and walk around the station.

Shuffling the Edwards file back together, his eye was snagged by a familiar set of words: 'The Diogenes Club'. Turned out that Edwards hadn't been a member, but he had visited there just two days previous to his murder.

Greg frowned as his hindbrain came up with something. He fumbled for the report on the fire at Mrs Kelkar's, and skimmed for the photos he was looking for. In the basement, where the fire had caught, there were lumps of solidified metal, in copper and that same silvery-aluminium.

Everything snapped together.

The Mint was planning a new pound coin—a coin which had integrated microtechnology to foil counterfeiting.

Hemingway had been a metalworker who specialised in precious metals and alloys, and had been killed either for the work he'd been doing or something that he knew.

Countless governmental transactions were conducted at the Diogenes Club.

The Deputy Assistant Commissioner was a member of the Diogenes Club.

Luke Edwards had been at the Diogenes Club two days before he was killed.

Luke Edwards had been a high-level hacker and technology genius.

Mycroft had been searching for something vital in Edwards's home, knowledge of which required a high security clearance.

Someone up in the police hierarchy wanted Randall Microsystems blamed for Grange's murder.

If Randall Microsystems were indicted for conspiracy, it would take eyes off Abbey Corp.

Randall and Abbey Corp specialised in microtechnology.

Microtechnology like that which would be embedded in the new pound coin.

Microtechnology. Hacking. Non-ferrous metals.

The new pound coin.

There was a counterfeiting operation tying everything together.

Greg was certain of it.

With a flash of horror, Greg understood another thing that tied all these cases together:

Someone always ended up dead.

Heart racing, he phoned Hopkins, but only got his voicemail. He rang both John and Sherlock, and neither of them picked up either. Feeling ill, he phoned Mycroft at both his office and on his cell. When he didn't pick up, panic tightened its grip.

A voice came over the scanner. "…three gunshots. 933 Astin Terrace." It was a familiar address; he'd just read it over the phone to Hopkins. It was Nathan Garrideb's house.

Greg didn't hear anything else. He didn't even put on his coat. He only grabbed his keys and ran.

He knew precisely where Mycroft was.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg drove in a fog of mixed desperation and impatience. When he arrived, he flew out the car door, past the rows of ambulances and patrol cars, and up into the first floor of the dusty, cluttered house._
> 
> Greg finds himself at the top of the emotional roller coaster he's been on. He can only let gravity take him—inevitably, inexorably—from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and WearItCounts do a stunning job of checking me on my tone and my implications. I am so thankful for them.

Greg drove in a fog of mixed desperation and impatience. When he arrived, he flew out the car door, past the rows of ambulances and patrol cars, and up into the first floor of the dusty, cluttered house. Hopkins was already there kneeling on the back of a tall, dark-haired man dressed in grey, handing a gun to Kelly, and John was assisting the emergency service personnel in staunching Sherlock's leg, which was bleeding profusely. The injury must not have been _too_ bad, however, because Sherlock was upright and angry.

"If you thought it would be that simple to get Garrideb out of the house," he snapped at the man on the floor, "why did you bother to put the ad on Craigslist?"

Greg scanned the room and found Mycroft standing in the corner, talking to Sergeant Kelly in hushed tones. His hair was awry, but otherwise he seemed fine. Fury washed over Greg from the top of his head down to the soles of his feet. He walked straight up to Mycroft and, before Mycroft could say a word, shoved him into some cardboard boxes stacked against one wall. Mycroft stared, wild-eyed, half sprawled across the pile. "What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?" said Greg.

"Gregory—"

"You said you were going to be careful. I thought this was just a glorified treasure hunt." He rubbed his knuckles. "Did Andrea find you? Do you know how lucky you are that you weren't hurt? You—" He stepped closer as terror clutched at him. "You weren't hurt?" Stunned into silence, Mycroft shook his head. "You're sure?"

Mycroft swallowed hard as he stood. "Only a very little."

A shock of fear stabbed Greg's stomach. Frantic, he crowded into Mycroft's space and touched him everywhere: arms, chest, belly, the sides of his neck. "Where? _Where_." Mycroft grabbed Greg's hand and lifted it to the outside of his upper arm, where his jacket was torn and wet. Greg manhandled him to find that something had sliced through his clothing and the first several layers of skin. "What did this?"

Mycroft huffed out a humourless laugh, but then his expression sobered. His eyes were wide. They didn't leave Greg's face for a moment. "You should know."

Greg felt a sympathetic burn where he'd been grazed by a bullet not too many weeks before. " _Mycroft…_ "

"Gregory. I'm _fine_."

With the sound of his name, Greg's knees went weak. He grabbed onto Mycroft's shoulder for stability, but didn't let himself wobble for more than half a breath before he turned to where Hopkins was leveraging up the dark-haired man from the floor. Greg's voice dropped so deep and so quiet he felt it vibrate his ribcage. "You are so, so lucky, do you know that?" he told the gunman. "So fucking lucky. DI Hopkins is a good man. Better than me, today. _So_ much better than me." The periphery of his vision, already dark, narrowed further.

"Greg?" Hopkins said, sounding worried, but Greg ignored him.

"Because I don't know what would have happened to you if your aim had been—" He swallowed. "If your aim had been…better, I—" He cleared his throat, finally reining himself in. "This would not have gone well for you. Worse. You can't even _begin_ to imagine how bad it would have become." The gunman flinched, and Greg could feel everyone in the room staring.

Grabbing himself by the scruff of the neck, Greg stalked toward Mycroft. His heart was pounding in his throat. Greg walked straight up to Mycroft, grabbed him by the face, and held him there. The desire to kiss him twisted his bones but he stayed still, staring into his eyes. They were wide with concern, and so, so clear.

"Gregory," Mycroft whispered. His jaw flexed.

"If I'd have been the one here to protect you," Greg whispered, fierce and dark, compelled to say things he knew he shouldn't, "I can't promise he would have made it out of this room alive."

Mycroft's eyes opened, just slightly, and his exhalation ruffled Greg's hair.

"Finish up here and meet me at my flat," Greg said, barely moving.

"Don't you have to help—"

"I need to leave this room. Right now."

Mycroft's adam's apple bobbed. "Understood."

"Do you?" Greg searched his eyes.

"Yes." Mycroft's voice broke. "I understand."

"Good." Greg turned to go, but Mycroft grabbed his arm.

"No. Mine. Go to mine."

"I don't have the code—"

Mycroft stepped in close and murmured. "Look in your change compartment. In your car. Go."

Greg's head snapped up, but something in Mycroft's eyes begged him not to ask again.

His feet were moving before he had a second thought. He made it out to the car without noting a single one of the emergency personnel and unlocked the car without looking for his keys. In the coin compartment was a slip of paper with six words on it.

THIS CODE IS FOR MY SAVIOUR

Greg shoved it into his pocket and was on his way.

* * *

At the gate to Mycroft's community, Wilson the security guard was eating an apple and watching something on his phone. He smiled warmly when he saw Greg and started in with the same conversation they'd had the last thirty times Greg had been there. "Hey, did you see New Zealand—"

"Sorry, I'm in a bit of a…thing." Greg said, taking refuge in vagueness. "Can I just…"

"Oh! Yeah, of course." He buzzed Greg through the gates. "Tomorrow, though. We're going to talk about that last Test."

"Of course," Greg echoed, his heart pounding in his palms and neck and groin. He pulled in to Mycroft's place and found himself at the door with the code in his hand and the keypad waiting for him. He punched in the sequence 'my saviour' all as one word, but rather than turning green, the red light began flashing. Worried it was a silent alarm, Greg stared down at the code in terror. His brain was steadily fogging up under pressure, but gave it another go using the SPACE key to separate out the two words. Nothing changed. Heart throttling him, he tried all six words with spaces in between, and to his great relief the light turned green.

The house echoed strangely with no one else in it. The adrenaline that had been raging through Greg's system from the moment he got the call had started to eat through his veins, and he wondered if he was dissociating. He found himself in the side room opposite the dining room, dragging his feet through the chic, long-pile Swedish carpet, then up the back staircase to Mycroft's room. At a loss, Greg had begun loosening his tie when he noticed something new.

In pride of place on the narrow wall shelf to the right of the larger bookcase was a portrait framed in a sleek black wood. To its left and right were smaller trinkets that looked like mid-century modern candleholders, and there was a wall lamp trained on it that appeared to be constructed solely of wire and glass. And in the centre of that artistic assemblage, in the portrait…was Greg, large as life.

Mycroft had finished it recently; there was a heavy, spicy scent still hanging about that Greg recognised from Mycroft's painting studio. Greg's eyes and teeth seemed to shine out from the dark as he smiled at something to the left of the viewer. It was so well done that even someone as artistically unschooled as Greg could recognise that fact; it didn't just capture Greg's features, but something ineffable as well.

And with that Greg instinctively knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Mycroft loved him. _Loved_ him. From the rendering of his eyes, his smile, the texture of his hair, the tone of his skin. Mycroft loved him, and clearly saw more beauty in Greg than Greg had ever seen there.

He hadn't been certain of Mycroft's feelings until now. Not until there was evidence.

_Mycroft loved him._

High in the corner a light flashed and a buzzer buzzed, then again, and Greg decided that either meant Mycroft had his room bugged while he was gone, or it was tied into the alarm system. He stayed quiet and still, watching the portrait and deciding what he was going to do when Mycroft came home, but when he heard the tread on the stair all his ideas melted into mist.

Behind him, the door opened and shut. "It's the security system," Mycroft said, his voice hushed in deference to the atmosphere in the room. "It lets me know when an outer door has opened or closed."

"What about windows?" said Greg. He didn't turn round.

"Different colour and tone." There was the sound of keys and coins hitting a bowl, and a rustle of fabric. "How do you like it?"

"I haven't seen it before."

"It only finished drying a week ago."

"I never sat for this."

"I didn't need you to. I had enough references to be getting on with."

"CCTV?"

"Among other things."

"You're creepy sometimes."

"So I'm told." Mycroft took an audible breath, and Greg could feel him step up close. Body heat pressed against his back. "You didn't say whether you liked it."

Greg closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and let it out through pursed lips. His heart was making an attempt to slam clear through his ribcage to escape the tension in the room. "Do I need to?"

"Of course not."

"But it'd be polite."

"It would."

The pull to turn round was strong, but the urge to resist meeting Mycroft's eyes was stronger. If he did, Greg wasn't sure what would happen next. "I do usually try to be polite."

"I've noticed."

"Would you be amaz—" he started, but then Mycroft trailed his fingers up the outside of Greg's lower arm and past his elbow. Greg shivered. He would have shut his eyes, but they were already shut. When he tried to finish the sentence, his voice came out rough and thready. "Would you be amazed if I didn't?"

"Deeply."

The touch continued up inch by inch, settling alight every nerve ending in Greg's arm. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Mycroft—"

"We can discuss it later."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You're angry with me."

"Do you know why?"

"We can discuss it later."

"You don't want to discuss it later. You want to discuss it now."

"Why do I—" Mycroft started, but Greg turned and pinned Mycroft with a gaze and the sentence trailed off. They stared at each other. Mycroft peered into him, and he studied Mycroft in return. He looked knackered, but familiar and warm, and the look in his eyes was like a thunderstorm at twilight: electric and liminal. Deep. Full of potential. "You meant what you said."

"About?"

"To James Winter. At Garrideb's."

Learning his name, Greg was stabbed with another shard of anger. "You _promised me._ You _promised me_ you'd be careful. What could have possessed you to— You know, I'm used to your goddamn brother running off without back up, but I never expected that _you_ would— I thought you, at least, were smarter than that."

"You wouldn't have killed him."

There wasn't enough air in the room. "I don't know that."

"You wouldn't have killed him. I know you."

"I said I don't know."

"Why?"

Greg set his jaw. He looked into those grey-storm eyes and at last felt the stutter of the universe that he'd been expecting ever since his realisation first shook him. He felt the profundity of his emotion for Mycroft, felt the weight and the solidity and the mass of it. He felt it shifting the gravity of his entire world.

They stood in absolute silence. He breathed.

Neither of them moved first. They simply crashed into a kiss: raw and elemental, nothing in it but the violence of soul-deep love. They kissed harder and harder and harder until Greg tasted the tang, and then he stepped closer so they touched from knee to mouth and kissed him with his entire body.

"Love" was barely the right word for it. Love was hearts and flowers. Poetry. But this, this was blood and bone and breath. This was rage. This was tears. This was his entire life, bent and twisted to fit up against Mycroft's frame.

They staggered sideways to slam against the wall next to the en-suite. Greg immediately felt the bruise turn warm inside his shoulder. He clawed Mycroft closer and cut the inside of his lips on his teeth. Close was not close enough. With both hands on Mycroft's arse he attempted to lift him up, but he was too heavy. Mycroft went up on his toes as Greg tried again, overbalancing them, and they caught themselves hard against the door jamb. The bath tiles echoed with the shock of their collision.

Mycroft cried out into Greg's mouth but grabbed his head to prevent him pulling back. Greg's heartbeat made it difficult to hear anything else over his pulse and his breath, but still he felt Mycroft's rhythmic, plaintive, desperate noises reverberate through them. The desire to claw his way through and into Mycroft's body was so strong Greg dug his fingernails into the meat of Mycroft's arse as he growled, furious. "I love you so _fucking_ much."

He felt, more than heard, Mycroft suck in a breath.

They froze.

Then, in a frenzy, Mycroft began tearing at Greg's clothes: his shirt, his belt, his tie. Greg let himself be swept away by the desperation. He managed to unbutton Mycroft's shirt and unbuckle his belt before a fresh wave of passion dizzied him. The world tilted and he dug in for another painful kiss.

No matter how hard he pressed in, nothing soothed the need. Greg whimpered and shook. At his waist he felt Mycroft fumble and something give way, and Greg's trousers fell to the floor, heavy with the weight of his belt and wallet and keys. He tried to step out of them, but his haste his ankle snagged and he lost balance, and though Mycroft staggered sideways and tried to catch him they still listed into the coat rack near the door. It fell to the ground with a complicated smack, muffled by whatever had been hanging on it.

Mycroft didn't pause; he swooped in and jammed his tongue down Greg's throat, artless and invasive, and yet the desperation still carried through. Greg moaned, and when Mycroft eased up Greg followed him until Mycroft's back slammed against the wall near the door.

The shock reverberated to Greg's core.

"Same," Mycroft rasped out, and the noise curled Greg's toes. He renewed his attempt to strip Mycroft of whatever clothing he could, despite the liquid pleasure of Mycroft reaching through the placket of his boxers and rolling his balls in his palm. It felt as if his core had become tidal, flowing in and out with the motion of Mycroft's hand, and he whined with saturated bliss at the feel of it. Mycroft's trousers thudded to the floor, followed by his boxer briefs, and then Greg could reciprocate the touch.

He was hot and hard as new iron. Greg used his cock like a handle to shove him harder against the wall and hold him there, stroking with long movements, allowing himself to be swept along by the roll of Mycroft's hand on his balls and the base of his cock. When Mycroft cried out again, his voice breaking, Greg was struck once more by a flash of overwhelming, _ferocious_ love.

He cried out into the kiss, and Mycroft echoed the noise. Mycroft surged forward and spun them sideways, and Greg's knee smacked against the tall, narrow vase that held a tropical plant. The entire thing toppled sideways and became wedged into the angle between the wall and the leather wingback where Greg usually dumped his coat. He was about to pull away, but Mycroft clawed his fingernails into Greg's lower back and scraped them across his arse as he shoved down his boxers, and the burn wiped away any thought of anything else.

Desire and need flared through his system. He bit down on Mycroft's lower lip, and then his chin, and then his neck. They came together again with a clash, grinding in, gasping, moaning, shaking. Greg dug his cock into the cradle of Mycroft's hip and tried to push through him into the wall.

It was raw, like scratching an itch. Like ripping open a mosquito bite. Like the burn of tearing open a wound that had scabbed over. It was painful and delicious, a satisfying release after being on tenterhooks for so long. The two of them were burning away the past, and at the end of it all Greg knew they would emerge as something new.

With a moan, Mycroft seemed to crawl closer to Greg's body, as if they hadn't already been plastered together from knee to mouth. Greg caught his arse in both hands and heaved, and this time Mycroft lifted off the ground. Shaking, unable to thrust, Greg allowed him to squirm and grind until they overbalanced and began to topple sideways again. Greg dropped Mycroft as he fell, but their legs tangled and they slammed against the corner of the heavy oaken bookcase that served as a room divider.

Greg shouted in pain and Mycroft began to pull away. But the hurt was spreading like a brilliant, focusing fire, and Greg's brain spun it immediately into pleasure. He swung Mycroft sideways and yanked their bodies flush again.

Mycroft passed his hand over his mouth, and when he reached down it spread slickly over Greg's cock. Helpless, Greg's eyes flickered back and he lost his breath. Mycroft spun round, then heat and the strength of Mycroft's thighs enveloped Greg's cock.

Instinctively, Greg's hips kicked forward and buried him tight at the apex, with the lush curve of Mycroft's arse pressed against his pubic bone. Mycroft moaned long and low, a pornographic sound which made Greg pulse harder. The universe slipped sideways.

He lost a few seconds to a mindless, thrusting fever, then came back to find himself with both hands clutching the hot skin of Mycroft's hips, his cock slamming between Mycroft's legs and his heart raging to beat its way into Mycroft's ribs. When they lost balance and listed forward, both of them had to throw out an arm to catch themselves against the wall. With his other arm locked round Mycroft's waist to pull their bodies flush, he could feel the desperate shift of shoulder muscles as Mycroft fought to continue working his cock even as they both sought equilibrium.

Greg rutted forward to begin it all again.

Mycroft let out a gasp with the force of each collision, and the hand he was using for support clawed for purchase against the polished wood at their front, nails slipping. Greg only had to shift his hand a few inches to interlace their fingers, pinning him, and then their bodies were no longer two but one: one movement, one motion, one perfect machine speeding harder and faster as the pleasure spun on.

Greg could think of nothing but the friction of their bodies and the twisting-tight sensation knitting in his groin. Every noise Mycroft made stoked the fires hotter. There was nothing in the world but Mycroft and the heat they were building between them.

After a few bleary minutes, he realised Mycroft wasn't just panting; he was forming words into each breath. And the longer it went on the heavier they breathed, and the heavier they breathed the more clear those words became.

" _I love you,_ " Mycroft was whispering. " _I love you. I love you. Please. I love you._ " It was a litany of breath and heat, mindless and unending. Greg wasn't entirely sure Mycroft was conscious of it, but that made it feel even more true. Greg's knees went weak, and he keened into Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft echoed the sound and began shaking, not a gentle tremble but a body-jolting shudder. His shoulder muscles bunched as his hand on his cock sped double. Greg bit down for a moment, straining to match Mycroft's rhythm, then he buried his face tight into the crook Mycroft's neck and pressed them both harder into the wall. Mycroft's cries still grew louder and louder until soon he was shouting against the wood, enough that the vibration echoed back and carried through Greg's ribs and drove him that last few inches out of his mind. The harder he shoved, the louder Mycroft yelled, and the hotter became the early stages of Greg's orgasm. The sound of their heartbeats became a deafening _thud thud thud_ in the rhythm of their accord.

And then, all of a sudden, they hit flash point. Greg lost control of himself as the conflagration took hold. His knees buckled as all the muscles in his lower body began to spasm, and he groaned with the overflow of pleasure. Mycroft began to jerk in his arms, painting Greg's wrist. Time went white and endless.

Before the world came crashing down.

It was preceded by a strange zipping noise, and a few scattered bangs, and then the bedroom was filled with a resounding _boom_ that stopped Greg's heart. The floor shook. Instinctively, he covered Mycroft's head and ducked them both to the ground.

The smell of dust and paper filled the silence that followed, and carefully Greg opened his eyes. The room seemed lighter, and as he looked around he understood why: the wall that Greg had been fucking Mycroft against wasn't a wall. It was the bookcase that had divided the room. A bookcase which was now on the floor.

Slowly, Greg stood and took stock of what they'd done. Behind him was the toppled coat rack, laying in a pool of its dressing gowns and robes, with one arm snapped off and laying a foot away. To the other side was the tilted pot plant, not entirely fallen, spilling soil onto the floor. Semen dripped off his wrist and down his hand. And in front of him was the bookcase.

He didn't even know how they'd managed it. It was a solid, heavy thing, a venerable monster of furniture that ought to have been bolted into place, and it was resting on a sea of books which were scattered across the floor for several feet and crushed under its shelves.

"Shit," Greg said, looking at the destruction. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Mycroft, for his part, was standing upright and blinking at the case. Then he turned to take in the rest of the furniture, their scattered clothes, and then himself.

He began to laugh.

It started as a quiet giggle, but very quickly became a full-voiced, body shaking _thing_. Greg had never seen him laugh so hard. After a few moments of witnessing the extraordinary sight, Greg felt an echoing laugh bubble up. For endless moments, their laughter filled the room alongside the books and wood and disarray.

Mycroft's eyes were shining and wet. His nose crinkled when he smiled, which twisted his face into new and beloved shapes. Greg couldn't look away. Mycroft scanned the mess they'd made and began to laugh harder, an escalation that Greg didn't even know was possible. He watched Mycroft collapse into the chair bare-arsed to laugh as if he'd lost all control of himself. Greg watched Mycroft relax into the space his body was occupying, and it made his chest tight.

After a minute, Mycroft hoisted himself back to standing and surveyed the room. Still giggling, he shook his head and approached Greg, took his face in his hands, and kissed him.

He poured laughter into their kiss.

It made Greg's knees go soft. It was slow and luscious, sweet, scintillating with warmth like cinnamon candy, and he was weakened with love. Mycroft whimpered very, very quietly. The world stopped for a moment.

"I can't believe we did that," Mycroft murmured. His lips brushed Greg's. "I love that we did that."

"We ruined your books."

"I'll worry about it later."

"I don't understand. Are you drunk?"

"Something like it." Mycroft kissed him again, deep and wet, and Greg clung on. His heart was back to a fair sprint, and it pressed up his chest and into his throat. He wanted to say things, but also didn't want to say those things. He pushed his face into Mycroft's neck and breathed deeply until he'd got himself back under control.

Mycroft squeezed him, his arms locking tightly round Greg's ribs as if he never planned to let go. 

"You're shaking," said Greg. He had just enough awareness outside himself to notice.

Mycroft huffed a laugh, and the heat of it was trapped against Greg's scalp. "I fell so hard I suspect I bruised something."

"I think I bruised a lot of things."

To his surprise, Mycroft began giggling again, as if the combined effects of sex and declarations and laughter had unlocked something within him, and his relief made emotion easy. Greg held on and let himself float along for the ride.

* * *

Eventually Greg made vague noises about cleaning up before going to bed so neither of them tripped over the corner of the bookcase in the middle of the night, and Mycroft agreed—though Greg regretted recruiting him immediately.

"Mind your goddamn arm, would you please," he said after the fourteenth time Mycroft reached too high and hissed. The bullet graze wasn't nearly as bad as Greg's had been, thank christ, but it was still a wound and it still deserved some care.

"I'm unaccustomed to this."

"Andrea is going to kick your arse into next week, you realise."

"I'm trying not to think about it."

"If you thought _I_ was angry—"

"Gregory," Mycroft warned. Greg grinned. It was a rather dark pleasure, that he wasn't the only one that was going to give Mycroft hell for running off by himself, and he relished it. Schadenfreude tasted sweet.

Greg read the title of the book he was shelving. " _The Pearl_."

In the corner of his eye, Mycroft's spine stiffened. "I'll take that. It should go over—"

" _A Journal of Voluptuous Reading_ "? Mycroft grabbed for it, but Greg's reflexes were better. He flipped to a random page, and what he saw made his eyes widen. "'Lay your beautiful prick between the globes of my bosom; you shall spend there next time—' What the hell?" Greg grinned. He held Mycroft off with one arm and dodged his next grab. "Seriously, is this porn?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"What else would you call it?"

"History?"

Greg laughed. He handed the book to Mycroft. "Do you think I'm going to be shocked by what's inside?"

"You might be appalled. But only by the quality. The language is quite…Victorian."

"Why do you even have it?"

Mycroft turned his back to him and shelved it in a distant corner, as far out of Greg's reach as he could. "…Sentiment."

"Why are you sentimental about horrible Victorian porn?"

"You had…magazines, I imagine."

It took Greg a moment, but then the penny dropped. "Oh my god."

"Hush."

"Oh my _god_. That was wank material."

"Hush."

"When you were a teenager. You wanked to horrible Victorian porn."

"It was accessible. And, alas, necessary. Although it's not as dire as it sounds; the situations are more risqué than you'd imagine."

"But it's Victorian."

"Partner swapping, oral sex, anal sex, double penetration, flogging, casual bisexuality…"

"In _that_?"

"It was quite an education."

"No wonder you turned out the way you did."

"You don't seem to mind."

"I'm beginning to think I might be too tame for you."

Mycroft looked at the potting soil spilled onto the carpet and the books still scattered round them. He met Greg's eyes, and his smile was warm but intense. It sent a thrill to Greg's stomach. "On the contrary. I think we're doing just fine."

* * *

By the time Mycroft was finished with his shower, Greg was already in bed, clean and safe and comfortable and half-dozing with a random book of nautical history open in front of him. The movement of the mattress shook him the few levels back to full consciousness, and he felt Mycroft's lips on his forehead.

"Good shower?" Greg murmured.

"It did the trick."

"Did you need help changing your dressing?"

"I handled it." Mycroft dumped off his dressing gown and scooted in under the covers. His skin was still shower-hot, and Greg curled up against him, groaning. They entangled, and Greg felt the last drops of tension in his spine drain into the bed and disappear. Mycroft made a deep but quiet sound of contentment, and for a few minutes Greg let them both have a bit of peace before he said the thing which he knew was going to shake it.

"Will you tell me about the case now?"

He had to give Mycroft some credit: he barely twitched. "Aren't you too tired?"

"I won't be able to sleep until I know."

Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg's forehead again, obviously thinking. The size of the breath he took before he spoke was Greg's first clue that this was going to be a hell of a story. "There is a young gentleman by the name of Peter Phelps, who is a second-generation member of Diogenes and a technological marvel working for the Mint. A few nights ago he found that someone had come while he was working in a private room at the club and stolen a laptop, on which were several very important files fundamental to the creation of the new pound coin. I was brought in to help recover it all. He was, as you can imagine, distraught. In fact, he was nearly hospitalised with the results of his anxiety. He's so young, and the guilt and worry…to say that he was having a difficult time coping would be an understatement." Mycroft began stroking a path up and down Greg's spine. Greg shivered. "My investigation led me to find that Sherlock was working on the same case, and because time was of the essence, and two pairs of eyes are better than one, we began working together."

"I didn't realise his security clearance was that high," Greg said, knowing it wasn't.

"Needs must," Mycroft said with a tiny shrug. "At any rate, the group who planned to counterfeit the new coin had hired Luke Edwards to use the information on the laptop and help create adequate security workarounds, so when the legitimate coins were released the counterfeit models would pass. When I saw you at Edwards's house I had only just discovered that he, having learned Peter's habits, had used his more-respectable alias to gain access to the club, and from there he stole the laptop."

"But he wasn't killed by a counterfeiting gang. Sherlock proved he was killed by his mistress. Hopkins told me."

"The universe has a horrible sense of humour," said Mycroft.

"Because it's not actually funny?"

Mycroft snorted so quietly Greg nearly missed it. "Or usually so simple."

"So what was with the empty hiding spot in his house?"

"Edwards had a lot of value within the darker technological communities and black markets. We've known for a long time how he would make the drops—out of the secret vault during parties at which he was operating in his wilder guise as a DJ—but we never found concrete evidence and never caught him in the act."

"Since when do you need evidence?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. "We're not as bad as we're made out to be in films, Gregory."

"No kidding. I think you're probably worse."

Ignoring that, Mycroft began stroking his back again. "So as you said, the laptop wasn't there, nor was any sign that it had ever been. Like Edwards, I found myself at a dead end. Time was passing, and we still hadn't found the files. Each day increased the likelihood that someone could break into the laptop, and developing a new technology would cost the Mint a painful amount of money. Not to mention the embarrassment for the agency, and the potential reaction of the stock market. I'm afraid the reason I've been so scarce over the last handful of days was because of this case; it took precedence over everything else. You have my apologies."

Greg didn't know what to say. His absence hadn't been about their horrible date at all. He'd simply gone off again without telling anyone, including Andrea, and had let Greg spin with worry—about him, and about their relationship—for no good reason at all.

Mycroft froze. "Gregory, please."

"Hm?"

"You're upset, but you're biting your tongue. My availability—or, rather, lack thereof—has never bothered you before, so I'm afraid I don't—"

"No, that's not…No." Greg took a deep breath. He was very aware that this was Mycroft's first relationship in an age, and he wanted to tread lightly. "I just… I worried."

"You often worry."

"I didn't know what was going on, and we'd just had…erm…not the best date imaginable. I don't feel comfortable asking you to change your habits, because I don't think I have the right to be that demanding, but I really don't want to go through that again."

"You're not asking me not to be gone. You simply want to be assured I'm…safe."

The conversation was making Greg's throat tight. "If you don't mind."

" _Mind?_ Why should I mind?" Mycroft curled Greg into a tight hug and breathed heavily against his hair, agitated, as if the conversation meant more to him than the words that were spoken. "That's not a burden, that's a _blessing_. That's an honour. You care about me enough to worry about my safety? Gregory, that's…" Mycroft broke off and squeezed him harder. "…More than reasonable. You want me to be your partner, but you don't feel I should have some responsibility toward the relationship? You absolutely have that right to ask that of me. _I was in the wrong._ I know you, and should have predicted you would worry. But I didn't. I was in the wrong, and I'll be more aware."

"It made me very unhappy."

Mycroft took a few more audible breaths. "Gregory, would you honestly believe I'd let you worry if I understood the result of my actions? That I would have chafed at the idea of being accountable to you?"

"Well… Yes. Possibly. You value your independence. And so do I."

"Keeping someone assured of your safety, and giving up independence, are two very different things. And you know that. Don't be irretrievably stupid."

Greg opened his jaw, then closed it. He huffed, relieved. "Okay."

" _Nothing so casual_ , Gregory."

For a moment all Greg could do was stare. And then, for several moments more, all he could do was kiss him. He kissed him, and kissed him, and pressed love into it until it weakened Greg's bones.

Eventually, Mycroft broke the kiss to speak into Greg's mouth. "So long as you're comfortable with me not giving you details—"

"I really don't care about the details," Greg said. "I spend most of my time not being able to tell you everything about my cases."

"Though you seem aware I could find them, if I needed."

"Yeah, but you don't go looking." Greg met his eyes. "Not anymore. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Mycroft returned his gaze for one heavy breath. Then he struck with his own kiss, the return of emotion so fervent it spun Greg's equilibrium like a top. By the time the kiss finally disintegrated, Greg had lost track of the conversation, and was forced to keep his eyes closed for a moment to regain himself.

"Thank you," Mycroft said.

"For?"

"Seeing me."

Greg blinked at the side of Mycroft's face, dizzied. Love-drunk. "It's my pleasure."

Mycroft held him for a while, his eyes closed, breathing through whatever was going on in his head. Then he swallowed and mouthed something, as if he were testing out the way some words felt before he spoke them. "I understand…I understand this might be a contentious opinion, but I feel like I must say it anyhow."

"Mm?"

"I must admit to feeling that all this was worth a wound."

And with that, Greg sobered up. "…Was it."

"To finally bring us to this point?" Either ignoring or oblivious to Greg's annoyance, Mycroft scratched his fingers through Greg's hair and gently kissed him. "Without a doubt."

"Was it also worth me knocking you down?"

Mycroft blinked, then began chuckling. Greg wasn't sure he'd ever heard him laugh so often and so easily. It was possibly one of the more glorious sounds he'd ever heard, and the anger that had risen up simply melted away in the face of it.

The sight of Mycroft, happily in love, was astonishing.

Greg swallowed down the lump in his throat. "You didn't ask me to dinner just to talk to me about the gala."

"No."

"You were going to tell me…"

"Yes. And if I hadn't let cowardice convince me you were angry, I might have gone through with it."

"I wasn't angry."

"I know that now."

"I was scared."

"Yes."

"I would have thought public declarations were outside your comfort zone."

"This entire relationship is outside my comfort zone. A public declaration would have been just one more thing in a long list. I thought you might find it romantic."

"More romantic than inciting me to violence, absolutely. For future reference, I prefer my declarations in private."

"Noted."

For several minutes they simply held on to each other as they floated in their own separate thoughts. Greg allowed himself to melt into Mycroft's body.

"Tell me what happened tonight," he said.

Mycroft rubbed his back whole-handed. It occurred to Greg that this manner of touch—constant, relentless—felt as if Mycroft were now secure in being as touch-greedy as he liked. Greg wanted it to go on forever. _I always want you to touch me._ "Tonight," Mycroft said, "Sherlock's investigations led him to discover that the house Nathan Garrideb now owned used to belong to Roger Presbury, a man arrested for counterfeiting in the 60s who had never been charged. It seemed too much of a coincidence for me to let it go. When we arrived at Garrideb's house he had a visitor, whom you met: James Winter, alias Lawrence Stark. He had been working on Garrideb, manipulating him to gain access to a secret room of the house and retrieve some items that had been left by the previous owner when we was arrested—items he believed would be essential for this current counterfeiting project."

"But they weren't?"

"I'll have to find out tomorrow, won't I."

"Wh— Oh." Because he'd come straight here. "Where are the files, then?"

"Safe." Mycroft pressed his mouth to Greg's hair. "Everything is safe."

Mycroft had to be itching to explore all the details of the case, but he'd seen how upset Greg was and come home. It was unexpected, and astonishing, and so touching Greg's chest ached. He held on tighter, flooded with love, and wondered how he was ever meant to sleep when his body was roiling with relief and thankfulness.

"Tell me how Sherlock found Garrideb's house," Greg said, and burrowed into Mycroft's chest, rubbing his lower lip against his chest hair, then settling down along his body. He was warm and smelled of home.

"I would have thought it was a coincidence, if it were not for the advertisement on Craigslist," Mycroft said. "As it happens, Sherlock had been approached by Garrideb's sisters several weeks ago. Knowing Sherlock, you'll understand why he brushed it off. However…" He went on, slowly, gently, and his voice resonated through his chest. Greg let himself be lulled by the buzz and the cadence and the hypnotising path Mycroft's hand was making along his spine, and eventually the hormones faded. Mycroft's story became a fog of comfort.

* * *

Greg's phone alarm went off an hour later than usual. "Shit," he said. Mycroft had gone, of course, but the destruction from the night before was still there. He took a short moment to look around, smug about how insensible they made each other, secure in the calm of having spoken important words, but there would be more time to luxuriate in satisfaction later. He was going to be very, very late.

"I'll be there soon, sorry," he said to Donovan, dialling before he even got out of bed.

"Yeah, I know. I got the message."

Greg froze. "The message?"

"When I got in." There was the far-away sound of paper shuffling, and the rustle of a phone being adjusted. "Holmes left a message that there were extenuating circumstances, you were going to be an hour late, and not to be concerned." She snorted. "He doesn't know how often you're late, does he."

"Oh." Greg blinked at the mug on the nightstand next to the bed, realising it was steaming. "Ah."

Donovan was quietly laughing at him. "Did The Boyfriend give you the slip?"

Greg shook himself out of it. "I'll see you soon," he said.

"Good thing you're so entertaining these days," she said, then rang off.

Every ache from the previous night bloomed into full colour as he showered, but he took the coffee in with him and considered how nice it was of Mycroft to think of it; without a doubt he must have been champing at the bit to satisfy his curiosity about the final details of the case, but he'd took the time to reset Greg's alarm and make him coffee and phone Donovan. It wasn't going to be nearly as rough a morning as it could have been, and that was all down to Mycroft. Mycroft, who not only was an amazing lover, but was also turning out to be a thoughtful partner.

A bit of a lie-in, a vanquished counterfeiting ring, a hot cup of coffee. And love beyond his wildest dreams.

It couldn't get any better than this.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Man, you've had all sorts of changes recently, haven't you?" Sharon said. "A grown-up job that's less likely to get you killed, to go along with the boyfriend who adores you. Things are finally coming together. Finally."_
> 
> Things were certainly changing, and Greg was letting himself believe that they were changing for the good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas WearItCounts, BakerStMel, and Mazarin221B, are astonishingly good at saying out loud all my tiny little thoughts and doubts and wonderings that are too quiet for me to hear. The result is something so much truer, so much more faithful to my intentions, that I couldn't have done this without them.

Greg had been a lot of things in his time: shoe salesman, stock boy, bouncer, legal secretary. But until Monday afternoon, he had never been a Detective Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police.

That one was new.

"And?" Donovan asked as she knocked at the door of his office, looking as if she'd run over there as soon as she'd seen him exiting Pitts's office. The hope and expectation on her face were blinding.

Greg let his own smile spread. He had been wrong that morning at Mycroft's: it could get better. Much, _much_ better.

She made a whooping noise, then caught herself. She looked round and came in, shutting the door behind. "So? Tell me about it. That happened so damn _fast_."

"How did you know what was going on in there?"

She raised an eyebrow and sat on his desk. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"I do have this job for a reason, you know."

"It was that obvious I'd applied?"

"It really was."

"I probably wouldn't make a very good spy, then," he said, putting himself in mind of Mycroft. Not that that was difficult, after the night before. Every bump and bruise reminded him of Mycroft.

"For many reasons," she said, with a twist to her mouth.

He almost missed her snark because he was too busy thinking of Mycroft's hands sliding up and down his back, but then he tuned back into the conversation. "Excuse you."

"It's too late for you to be a spy now. You're going to be busy doing paperwork and making sure Reynolds doesn't pawn off all the high-profile cases onto Latimer."

He groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Oh god. What have I done."

"A good thing." Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. She hopped off his desk and headed for the door. "Congratulations, sir. It's about time."

"Thanks," he said, distracted now for a very different reason. He kept replaying the conversation he'd had in Pitts's office.

_"There'll be a hell of a shakeup, Lestrade. The deputy assistant commissioner is facing corruption charges up one side and down another. But it confirms some suspicions AC Callihan has been having, and you've done us all a tremendous turn, I don't mind telling you. Anyhow, here." He pushed a pile of documents and contracts toward Greg. "We've been wondering when you were finally going to bite the bullet. Let the younger men handle the leg work," he had said, only barely succeeding at looking chummy. "This is as good a time as any. Better, maybe. Especially with this latest case, it's clear your experience could well use the wider vantage point. We were happy to fast track this. Call it a Christmas present. It's about damn time."_

"The Trout tonight? To celebrate?"

Greg looked up at her. "Hm? Oh, yeah, great."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine." He brushed her concern away. "Just thinking."

"Processing?"

"Yeah." They all had been right; it was time. He knew it was time. And the extra money would be more than appreciated. He'd wanted this. But now that it had happened, he still wasn't certain how he was going to manage to fulfil his need for getting up to his elbows in crime solving if he was having to act like a playground monitor most of the time. He sighed, and supposed that sort of thing would become easier with practice.

Even that morning he'd been excited about how much better things were getting. That didn't mean they were immediately going to be easy, but he supposed that as long as he had a handsome someone leaving him coffee in the morning, someone who loved him, things would all work out.

She gave him a small, gentle smile. "Congratulations again," she said, then shut the door on his thoughts.

As soon as he was alone, he dug out his mobile. His heart pounded nauseatingly hard as he waited for Mycroft to pick up. "I've been promoted," he said as soon as he heard the click.

There was a nerve-wracking moment before Mycroft responded, but when he did, his voice wrapped round him warm and soft as a favourite blanket. "Have you. Congratulations."

"They fast-tracked it. They want me settled in before the holidays. People have been impressed with how I've been working with Hopkins."

"As well they should be."

"I thought you weren't keeping tabs."

"I was simply assuming. You always impress me, so I'm always pleased when others finally agree."

Greg felt his cheeks heat. "Flatterer."

"But not idly. Can I tempt you to dinner tonight in celebration?"

"Oh." Torn, Greg grimaced. "I just promised Donovan that we could all go to the pub tonight. I think she's already imagining a little party. I'm sorry. You could always…come along?" He expected Mycroft to say no, but it didn't hurt to offer.

"Thank you, but you have commitments. We can consider Friday our celebration."

Friday. The gala. This was turning out to be a hell of a week. "I can't see you before then?"

"It's possible. But if not, count on Friday." A breath, and Mycroft's voice made gooseflesh spring up over Greg's arms. He sounded like a wildcat about to spring. "It will be our very special night."

Greg couldn't fucking _wait_.

* * *

Hopkins raised his pint glass. "Congratulations."

"Long time coming," said Donovan, doing the same.

Greg fought to keep his smile from getting too broad. "Thanks," he said, and clinked his glass against theirs. He could still hear them over the ambient noise, but the place was about to get busy with the after-work crowd and the match-watchers filling up the place. He looked around for others from the Yard. "You didn't invite anyone else out?" he said.

"Patel said he had a meeting he couldn't get out of," said Donovan, "and everybody else I talked to said they'd be by whenever they could. So you'll need to stick around for a while. Sit in state. Like a king."

"Oh excellent." Greg rolled his eyes, but a part of him was pleased. It would be like passing the baton.

"When are _you_ going to do your exam?" Hopkins said to Donovan, jogging her shoulder and making her slosh IPA all over her beermat. They had both already been stuck in when he arrived, and he wondered how deep in it they were.

"I'm working on it," she said, not seeming too put out about the mess. "Certainly not gonna jog in place as long as this one did." She pointed at Greg with her chin, jostling her glass again.

He mock-scowled." _Excuse me_."

They both laughed at him.

"Did you tell Sharon yet?" Donovan asked.

"Not yet." He smiled, though the idea made him oddly nervous. "I'll phone her and mum later."

"They'll be pleased."

"They'll be pleased for the same reasons I hadn't been applying."

Hopkins looked confused, so Donovan filled him in. "They worry about him being hurt out in the field."

"They still don't know that I have been," said Greg.

"You're a model of communication skills, sir, if you don't mind my saying."

"Yeah, I'm a wonder."

"You'll have to tell them about it sooner or later."

"I most certainly do not," he said with mock horror. Mock horror tinged a bit of real horror as well.

"Does The Boyfriend know?"

Greg's stomach plunged to his shoes. He froze with his pint halfway to his mouth and felt his face turn cold. Slowly, with great apprehension, he slid his gaze sideways to Hopkins's face.

Hopkins didn't look surprised, necessarily, but he didn't look unsurprised either. He looked, most of all, very, very blank. Greg saw Donovan glance between the two of them, and her mouth twisted.

"Ah," she said. "Sorry."

"I…didn't know I could know," said Hopkins.

"Does that mean you did?" Greg said.

"Er, yeah. I figured it out ages ago, back when you introduced Mycroft to me. You weren't very subtle."

"Ah."

"You fumbled it a little."

"I did, didn't I."

"And then at Garrideb's… Well."

"Ah."

"I just figured I wasn't meant to know."

"No, it's…fine."

"Sorry, Sir," said Donovan, "I didn't know I shouldn't—"

"It's fine, I said."

"Hm." Donovan narrowed her eyes, and Greg ignored her.

_I'm a bit new at this,_ Greg wanted to say, but instead he tried to shrug it off. "Moving on."

Hopkins laughed, drily. Finally he was beginning to smile. "It would have been okay, you know."

"Seemed risky."

"To mention you were— You'll throw yourself at armed gunmen, but won't tell me— Nah, never mind. I get it."

"Sorry."

"I'll try not to be offended."

"I'd appreciate that."

All three of them sat without speaking for a minute while Greg itched at the awkwardness round them. Then Hopkins spoke.

"So here's the question burning a hole in my pocket: what the hell kind of name is Mycroft?"

"I said 'moving on'."

"Yeah, but _seriously_."

" _Moving. On._ "

"And his brother. Sher-lock," pronounced Donovan with not a little glee.

"What the hell's wrong with that family?"

"Right?"

"Excuse me," Greg cut in. "Can you two at least wait until I'm gone to do this?" Hopkins and Donovan sniggered like schoolchildren, and Greg rolled his eyes. He revised his estimate of how much they'd drunk before he'd got there, adding in at _least_ one more round.

"Why isn't he just called Mike?" snorted Hopkins.

"I think if he ever called him 'Mike' he might no longer have a boyfriend," said Donovan.

"Please stop saying that. I beg of you," Greg said. " _Boyfriend_ makes me sound like a teenager."

"You look like a teenager."

Greg pointed to his grey hair as a visual reply, and Donovan laughed. "Fair enough," she said.

"So you'll stop?"

"Not likely."

With a sigh, Greg tried to accept his fate.

"No, seriously, I'm sorry I let you continue to hide it," Hopkins said, apparently stuck on the whole thing. "You must think I'm such a dickhead."

"It's… No. No, that's not it."

"I really did think I just wasn't supposed to know."

"Maybe you should change the subject," said Donovan, and Greg tried not to look too grateful. The conversation was starting to make his arsehole clench up. Was this what he was in for, for the rest of his life?

…For the _rest of his life?_

There was no way Greg was examining that thought. Not now, and not for a long damn while. He brought up the kids' football league, and they talked about sport until the spectre of that interaction was left far, far behind.

* * *

"One more round, and then I've got to get home. My mother's had Neesie too much this week, and I want to give her a night of rest."

"Because she's old?" Greg said, dry.

"Oh hush," Hopkins said.

"He's your superior now," said Donovan. "You'll want to show a little respect."

"How likely do you think it is that _that's_ gonna happen?" They all laughed. "What about you?" Hopkins asked Donovan, as Greg finished off his pint. "You ready for a four-year-old some day?"

"You shut up," said Donovan, but she looked entertained, if embarrassed.

"Whatever happened to respect for your superiors?" said Hopkins.

"Sorry, can't hear you," she said around her glass.

"She's got nieces," said Greg. "She knows how it works."

"I like to think I've got a bit of time to decide," said Donovan. "Never know."

"With nieces you can give them back," said Hopkins.

"Thank god," Donovan said. "I don't know if have the energy for that full-time."

Hopkins turned to Greg. "And I suppose you're—"

"Don't even _think_ of finishing that thought." Greg snorted. "I'm through with all that."

"Sharon's a good'n, too," said Donovan. "You'd like her."

"Thanks," Greg said.

"She gives him hell for eating like shit," she continued. "It's nice to have backup."

"Pardon me?"

Donovan only grinned.

Wagging his head, Greg considered the prospect of introducing Hopkins to Sharon. They hadn't spent more than a few cases together, but Greg was already counting him as a friend. It was funny the way people could embed themselves into your life so quickly. "Next time she's in town, you should meet her," he told him.

Hopkins nodded, seeming honoured. "That'd be nice. Maybe for the holiday."

Shit. Christmas. "Maybe."

"And maybe I can meet Mycroft again, too. Now I know I'm meant to know."

Greg choked on his own tongue. "Okay, that's it. My round." He stood up to some mild jeering, planning to abandon them in favour of the bar, but as he turned he found Sergeant Kelly picking her way through the maze of tables toward them, her ponytail bobbing and her fleece zipped all the way up to her chin. Hopkins waved, and she yanked off a pair of colourful, striped mittens before pulling over another chair and sitting with them. Her cheeks were twin blooms of red.

"Are you okay?" Greg said.

She blushed further when she looked up and saw who was speaking to her, then waved away his concern. As she pulled off her scarf and unzipped her fleece, it was apparent that her knuckles were scabbed over, and she had tape on her left pinky. "Ran over here."

"How's the finger?" asked Hopkins, unconcerned. Greg wondered if she'd been in a fight.

"Not broken," she said cheerily.

"Did you win?" Donovan said.

"Just practising," said Kelly. Greg realised he didn't even know her first name, never mind what sort of practice she'd been up to. If she was going to be part of his team, he figured he'd better damn well find out. He felt like an arse for not knowing already. "But I lost my footing on a wall, so that'll be fun tomorrow." She stretched her shoulder.

"And the run is this weekend, or next?" asked Donovan.

"This." Kelly grinned with all her teeth. "It's going to be freezing. I can't wait."

"Weirdo," Donovan said, but she looked somewhat fond anyway. Kelly flashed her a V, and Greg realised that along with the scrapes and the tape, her fingernails were filthy.

"If you're not careful, the drugs squad is going to try to recruit you," Hopkins said.

Kelly snorted. "They already tried. Not nearly enough running up walls for my taste."

"Yeah, the only walls I ever go up are when he drives me up one," Donovan said, quirking her head in Greg's direction, and they laughed. 

The more he looked, the more mud he noticed on Kelly: spattered in her hair, behind her ear, and on the side of her neck. He decided they were either talking about mud runs or parkour—or possibly both—but he couldn't be certain. There was a social loop, and Greg wasn't in it. He coughed.

"It's my round," he told Kelly. "What are you having?"

"Oh." She scanned the pub as if she'd just realised where she was. "Erm. Cider?"

"You've got it," he said, giving her a smile calculated to be friendly but not _overly_ so, and heading for the bar.

"Hey, how are you gonna handle the briefing tomorrow?" he heard Donovan ask behind him. Hopkins had the unenviable position of finding a balance between informing the press of the counterfeit plot, but also not giving too much of the game away. The Mint had cautioned them that the project wasn't ready for more than a press release's worth of information to get out yet.

From the bar he watched them in animated discussion, heads together. Donovan and Kelly were laughing, and Hopkins's eyes were shining over the rim of his pint, and Greg found that he was already making peace with his new position. Rather than feeling old, he felt a sense of pride. Of responsibility. They were already good at their jobs, and now he was going to be well-placed to help them do even better. Excitement rose in his chest, and he swallowed it down to manageable levels.

Things were certainly changing, and Greg finally let himself believe that they were changing for the good.

* * *

There was a large, flat box wrapped in brown paper sitting on Greg's desk when he got in the next day.

"Patel?!" he called out, but before he'd even had a response, instinct—and experience—told him who it was from.

This suspicion was borne out by a card taped to the top, which was of a simple, thick, creamy stock inlaid with an "MH".

_Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade,_

_Deepest congratulations on your promotion._

_Please accept this token of my esteem, with the hope that it might ward off meddling reporters and the dullest of paperwork in equal measure, and with the expectation that it will be necessary as you venture afield to shepherd your flock of detectives._

_You will do very well in this new position. The Metropolitan Police are very fortunate to have you._

_M. Holmes_

The box contained a pile of lush, thick, black wool. Greg lifted it to find it was a beautiful pea coat with matte black buttons and a rich, silken lining. "The fuck are you doing?" he said, and slipped it on, finding an even smaller envelope tucked into one of the sleeves.

_If I cannot always be there to wrap myself around you, to keep you warm in winter, perhaps this coat can do it in my stead. I am so very, very pleased, and even more proud. Congratulations, Gregory._

The cloth was so luscious that Greg was hard-pressed not to bury his face in it, and the fit was perfect. Greg wouldn't have expected anything else.

His phone was ringing Mycroft without Greg having noticed dialling. "What have you done?"

Mycroft hummed. "Do you like it, then?"

"Of course I do. God, how could I not? This must have cost a fortune."

"You deserve it."

Greg threw his hands out blindly, searching for the right thing to say, but they came back empty. "I don't even know what to say."

"You needn't say anything."

"God, thank you. This is… You are… This is incredibly lovely of you. Really. I don't even know what to… God, it's so _soft_."

"Good. That's good."

"I just want to put my face in it."

"Well, it's your coat. That's allowed."

"Nah, I'd look like a toddler with a blankie."

Mycroft made a strange noise that may have been a laugh. "Best not, then."

"No, definitely best not."

With a pang, Greg realised Mycroft was always the one giving gifts, and hadn't once been a recipient. "Why are you spoiling me so much?"

"Am I?"

"You know you are. God, I'm going to owe you about a million gifts soon, just to make up for it."

"Nonsense."

"It's not nonsense. I've got to even it out somehow."

It was a long time before Mycroft spoke. "I hope…" He cleared his throat. "I hope some day…you…understand…the gift you give me. Every day. I could buy you a wardrobe full of clothing, and a bedroom to put it into, and a house for that, and it wouldn't begin to put a dent in the worth of what you give me just by… Just by…" The tremble in Mycroft's voice made Greg's chest tight. "You know. How you…feel. You know."

Mycroft's sentence broke at the end, and Greg bit down on the emotion clogging his throat. He pressed a fist against the tabletop. "Yeah," he croaked out. "I know."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Emotion simmered on the line between them.

"So do you accept it?" Mycroft eventually said.

"Of course I do, you daft bastard." Greg took a slow, deep, stuttering breath in an attempt to get ahold of himself. "I'm not a complete idiot."

"Certainly not. For that you'd have to reach at least Superintendent."

Greg choked on his laughter, and he scrubbed a hand over his face in an attempt to brush away the last of his over-emotion. "Talking of which: the deputy assistant commissioner is in the hottest water." He took another steadying breath.

"Ah."

"He says Edwards was blackmailing him into attempting to use Randal Microsystems to shift eyes from Abbey Corp's involvement in the Grange case, but seeing as he's not yet coughed up what Edwards had over him, I don't think they believe him. Not that it much matters, legally. He still did what he did. Still, if he hadn't been pressing so hard for Hopkins to lay blame at Randall's feet, I might never have been called in, and if I hadn't worked on that case who knows if I ever would have noticed the counterfeiting plot, so…"

"Are you saying that in a way, he did you a favour?"

"I'd like to think I would have won the promotion eventually."

"I'm certain you would have."

Donovan appeared in the doorway and flashed him five. Greg nodded.

"Listen, much as I'd rather not, I have to go. I've got a meeting."

"Shame."

She made a curious face down at the pile of black wool, and he waved her off. After holding up four fingers this time, she disappeared.

"Are you free tonight?" Greg said. "Only I'd really like to see you."

Mycroft sighed heavily, telegraphing his answer. It occurred to Greg he must do that on purpose, to soften the blow. "I'm afraid I can't. I deeply wish I could, but—"

"No, no. No no no. That's fine. I'll just…I'll see you Saturday."

"Mmm. Yes, Saturday."

"I pick up the tux the day after tomorrow. Another item for which you are responsible."

"When you put it that way, this rather _is_ a red-letter week in terms of clothing, isn't it."

"And all from you. For two grown men, you're doing an awful lot of dressing me up like a doll."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I rather enjoy your body."

"Wouldn't that mean fewer clothes, not more?"

"I enjoy _thinking_ about your body?"

"Ah, well. That makes slightly more sense." Greg smiled like a fool into mid-air. "Speak to you soon, then."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Wishing he could touch him, Greg sighed. "Nothing so casual?"

Mycroft's hum was as warm and soft as the coat. "Nothing so."

"Bye, then."

"Goodbye."

There was a weighty, comfortable moment, and they both rang off.

With the luxurious warmth of the coat at his fingertips, and the depth of Mycroft's voice ringing round his head, Greg floated happy and serene through the rest of his morning.

* * *

"I've been promoted," he told Sharon when he phoned her walking back from lunch.

"NO WAY. Holy shit. How did that happen?"

"I finally applied."

"No, I mean, what happened to make you do that? You've been holding back for _ages_."

"Eh, it was time. I wasn't expecting anything to come of it, not for a while, but they rushed it through in a hurry. Because of the holiday, they told me. But that may just be a polite way of saying, 'get in here, old man, and help us clear paperwork off our desks'."

"So what'll change?"

"Day-to-day? I'll, er, be in charge of multiple teams, now. More press statements. More meetings. I'm sure they'll have me run more trainings."

"Sounds very grown up."

Greg snorted. "Don't get too excited. I'll still be in the field as much as possible."

"Why would I get excited about that? You're not going to have the good stories anymore."

He also wasn't going to be in as much danger of being wounded anymore, but he was confident she'd sussed that immediately. "I'm sure I'll still have good stories."

"So how's Man Thing taking the news?"

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sharon."

She snickered. "Bet he's proud of you."

"As a matter of fact, he is."

"Of course he is. There's a lot to be proud of."

"Hm."

"Man, you've had all sorts of changes recently, haven't you? Divorce, Mycroft, and now the promotion…"

"It's definitely different."

"A grown-up job that's less likely to get you killed, to go along with the boyfriend who adores you. Things are finally coming together. Finally. _Finally_. Now all you need is to get married, buy yourself a white picket fence, and have b— Have ba—" She was laughing too hard to even get the word out.

"Ha ha. Hilarious."

"You've gotta admit: you two together. It's sort of romantic."

"I have to admit no such thing."

"Embrace the romance, Dad."

"I think we're embracing all the romance we need, at this point. Let us take it slow, okay? Don't rush us."

"You don't have forever, you know, you and Mycroft. Gotta make your remaining years count."

"Years cou— I'm only fifty, for christ's sake."

"Ancient."

"It's not the _Last Tango in_ bloody _Halifax_ over here."

"It's not?"

"Oh my god."

"Did you tell grandma yet? She's gonna lose her shit."

" _Oh my god_. Stop."

She chuckled. "Tell her in public. A nice restaurant or something. Maybe she won't make too much of a fuss if there are people around."

"You really think she's going to make a fuss."

The silence was eloquent. "Dad."

"Ugh." Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know. I know. I should have told her ages ago."

"You're in so much trouble."

"Gloating is ugly."

She laughed, taking his troubles just as seriously as she always did. "Phone your damn mother."

"Language." But she just kept laughing. "So much disrespect for the elders going on this week."

"You just said—" She giggled. "You just told me you weren't that old."

Greg was thankful to see the front doors to the Met. It gave him an excuse to pull the escape cord. "Listen, I'm back at work now. And as pleasant as this taunting is, I have a lot of paperwork to generate from this last case." He needed to write a report about the lineup Mrs Kelkar had done that morning, which had positively identified the visitor who'd been wheeling a heavy suitcase—full of metalwork experiments—outside her house. It was James Winter, whose name even now ignited a spark of anger that Greg had trouble extinguishing.

"Excuses, excuses," she said. But now that she'd got her laughter under control, her voice was warm. "Text me if you get bored."

"Why, what are you doing?"

"Trying to compile a video, and my computer is struggling."

Greg made a mental note to look into laptop prices well before she left for the States. "Sounds frustrating."

"Put it this way: I'm reading while I do it."

He grimaced. "Well, have fun with that."

"You have fun with yours. And phone your mother."

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, and Dad? Congratulations."

By the time Sharon rung off, Greg was already girding himself to revisit his fury with James Winter and his terror at Garrideb's house. Over his years of policing, Greg had learned to protect himself, so that these days the criminals usually inspired more loathing and pity than hatred. But in this case, it was different. Irrationally different. He didn't know what to do with that information; perhaps he wasn't as good a man as he'd always hoped.

Or perhaps—maybe—it was the fact that Winter had shed Mycroft's blood that was the difference. Perhaps it was time to accept the fact that when it came to Mycroft, Greg's heart played by different rules.

* * *

By the time the next evening rolled round, Greg had finally got up the courage to do as Sharon suggested.

"Hey, mum." Greg stepped in to kiss her on the cheek. "Sorry I'm late."

"So what else is new?" Annette softened the barb with a smile and sat back down. She sipped her wine. "I've started without you."

"What else is new?" Greg said with a twist to his mouth.

She snorted. "Hurry up and decide what you want so you can tell me what's so important. Is it to do with Sharon? No, Victoria? Oh god, you're not getting back together."

Greg had been taking a drink of his water, and at this he very nearly spat it out. "Oh god. No. No no."

"Good." Annette opened up her menu to scan through it. "She made you miserable, by the end there."

"No, nothing like that." Well, that wasn't entirely true, was it? He had asked her to dinner to tell her about the promotion, as well as to catch up, but 'catching up' needed to involve telling her about Mycroft. Internally, he set his jaw. He was so nervous about the prospect he didn't really notice what he ordered, and he only hoped his subconscious mind had been on watch for anything with capers.

He realised his mother was staring at him with her usual incisive look. "What?" said Greg.

"Well?" she said. "Good news first."

"Why do you think there's bad news?"

"Because you're stalling."

"I'm not stalling."

"Then talk to me, for christ's sake. If it's all good news—"

"I've been promoted."

She stopped, and a wide smile dawned on her face. She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. " _Finally._ What changed your mind?"

Greg shrugged and felt a blush creep up round his ears. "I decided it was time, and there was a position open. That's all."

"Detective Chief Inspector."

"Yeah." The sound of it still brought Greg out in a wide grin. "DCI."

"Finally."

She had been needling him for so many years, he wondered what her next topic of pestering was going to be now that promotion wasn't available as an option. "Mum…"

"What'll you be doing?"

"I'll largely have oversight responsibilities now, in charge of a few teams, but I'm hoping they'll still keep me out and about as much as possible. I don't want to be tied to a desk."

"Not yet."

"Not yet, no. I think I'd go mad. Let's save that for when I don't have any more choice, yeah?"

"Let's hope you _get_ a choice."

" _Mum._ "

"I'm just saying. Your career isn't the safest out there. And I'd hate…" She seemed to think better of the rest of that sentence, whatever it was going to be. "Anyway. That's fantastic news. What else?"

His stomach thrilled with nerves. "Why don't you tell me what's going on with you? How's the W.I.?"

"I keep trying to get them to do a series of lectures on the history of the American South and its continuing impact on race relations, but nobody's buying."

"Gee. I wonder why."

"More interested in how to successfully graft fruit trees."

"Are you expecting different from that lot?"

"I'm _hoping_. But not really expecting, no."

"Sorry."

The waitress brought them breadsticks, and Greg took one for a bit of business to keep his hands occupied. Just when he'd taken a bite, his mum spoke.

"I'm seeing a guy called Harold."

Once again, Greg nearly lost his mouthful onto the table. When he successfully swallowed and managed not to choke, he said, "Are you doing that on purpose?"

"Doing what?"

Greg gulped some of his water before answering. "Tell me about him?"

"I met him in the crafts shop. He was buying things to make these potpourri cakes he makes."

"…Potpourri…cakes?"

"Potpourri in the shape of cakes. Fake. They're rather lovely."

Greg blinked. "…Okay."

"Look." Annette pulled out her phone and pulled up a photo. Just as she described, there was a cake with a piece cut out of it, but the ribbon ringing it was real, not frosting, and he suspected it smelled of dust and old roses.

"You weren't kidding."

"Of course I wasn't. He's fantastic. Lively and fun and energetic. Lots and lots of energy."

"This is conjuring up pictures I rather wish I didn't have."

"Too bad for you."

Against his will, Greg laughed.

* * *

"So?" Annette asked when they'd been served their meals. Greg had apparently ordered lasagne, which turned out to be precisely what he wanted. "What else?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Bollocks."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me about Sharon."

"She's great."

"Worried about her leaving?"

"Of course. She came down a couple weekends ago to…er…" His brain stumbled, realising that now was as good a time as any. "She came down to do some paperwork with me and to…" Greg's stomach was roiling with the few bites he'd taken of his dinner, and his heart was beating its way out of his ribs. He felt his pulse in his ears and his palms and, strangely, the backs of his arms. He couldn't look her in the face while he did this, so settled his gaze somewhere past her right shoulder. "Er, and to meet my…erm. Boyfriend. For lack of any better term. My boyfriend."

There was a silence, and then his mother set down her fork. "Your boyfriend."

"…Yes."

"Your _boyfriend._ "

"Erm."

"Gregory Allen Lestrade. When the hell did that happen?" Something odd was going on in her tone, so he dared to look at her. Her mouth was serious, but her eyes were smiling.

"Erm. That depends on your definition of—"

"And you said there wasn't anything else going on. Rubbish."

"Well…"

"How long?"

"Have I been seeing him?"

She raised a pointed eyebrow. "What else do you think I'd be asking?"

Greg stifled a shudder. "Right, erm, well. We've been sort of…" He coughed. "…Seeing each other since the summer, but it's been serious for about a month."

"That long?"

The smile was gone from her face. She looked even more angry than he'd expected. "What?"

"You've been seeing someone for months and you're only now telling me?"

"Well, as I said, it's only been—"

"If I hadn't pestered you, were you _ever_ going to tell me?"

_Oh my god._ "Yes. Of course."

"What, when you got engaged?!"

Even if her strop was expected, it was still ridiculous. "No, mum, I was planning to tell you tonight."

"As a throwaway, right? 'Oh, and by the way…'"

_Jesus christ._ That was it; he was swearing off procrastination for good, if this was what resulted. "No, I was going to tell you during dinner."

"Well." Prim, she took a bite of her chicken. "It's about time."

"I haven't been single that long—"

"I don't like to think about you sitting there in that dingy flat, alone, night after night. It's depression waiting to happen."

"My flat isn't dingy."

"Victoria moved on ages ago."

"Mum, Victoria moved on _while we were still married_."

"Victoria was—and I don't say this lightly—a moron."

"That's uncalled for."

"How could she do that to you?"

This was well-trod ground, and Greg didn't feel like going over it yet again. "Mycroft agrees with you. As a matter of fact."

"Is that his name? Mycroft?"

"Yep."

"Posh bloke, then."

"Why do you assume—oh, never mind."

"He treats you well?" she said briskly, cutting into her meal.

_Better than I deserve,_ Greg thought. "Yeah. Very." He remembered a coffee cup sitting on the bedside table, and falling asleep on Mycroft's chest to the cadence of his storytelling. He smiled, and his stomach fluttered. "Yes."

"You love him. Good."

That woke Greg out of his reverie. "Sorry, what?"

"What, you didn't know?" She snorted. "Men."

"No, I… I mean, yes, but…"

"You haven't told him, though."

"As a matter of fact…" He swallowed. "I just did."

"And he loves you too, of course." He didn't know how to respond to that. His mum was quiet for so long that he ventured a look at her face. It was profoundly serious. "How could he not."

Greg took a bite of his lasagne and tried to chew very carefully so he could swallow past the thickness in his throat.

After he'd got through a few bites, she piped up again. "So what's next?"

"What do you mean what's next?

"For you two."

"I don't know. It's still early days."

"Not _that_ early."

Not early enough to escape her irritation, obviously. "Early enough that we're only just working out where we stand. We're not ready for anything else."

"If you really love him, trust yourselves. Don't waste too much time."

"What the f—I was just getting this same thing from Sharon yesterday."

"She's a wise young woman."

"Oh my god."

"And men are—and I don't believe it'll come as a shock to you—pretty stupid."

" _Mum._ "

"If you love each other, and are committed to each other, don't let yourself drag your feet. I love you, and I want you to be settled and happy."

Greg poked at his lasagne, once again at a loss for words.

"You were unhappy for far too long for my liking. Don't drag your feet. Promise me."

He reached for the wine. "Okay, okay. I promise."

"God," she said, tucking into her own meal. "Men are so stupid. And with two it's probably twice as bad."

He wanted to be indignant. He wanted to disagree. But based on their behaviour over the past few months, he was inclined to think she was right.

* * *

"Whoa."

The sight that greeted Greg in the tailor's three-way mirror on Friday evening was about ten times better than he'd expected—a fact that in itself was surprising, since up until about two weeks ago he'd have said a tux was a tux was a tux.

It wasn't simply the details that made the distinction; the usual satin lapel and trouser stripe had been joined by curved satin lapels on his waistcoat, and the shoes they'd selected for him were of the expected patent leather, but with a grosgrain band across the arch. But more than that the tuxedo fitted like a glove, and the entire package made him look fit and polished. Greg tweaked his satin bow tie and stepped back to examine the full ensemble.

"Whoa," he said again.

"That sounds like approval," said Jason.

"How do you guys finish these so fast?"

"We hire elves." He took a wry sip from his omnipresent water bottle.

"Well, they do impressive work." Greg smoothed a hand down his front, letting his fingers play over the placket on his shirt that hid its buttons from view. It provided a crisp front plane, and the uninterrupted expanse of white was a pleasing juxtaposition to the shiny-dull-shiny rhythm of the satin lapels against the wool. He moved some more, amazed by how little the clothes clutched at him.

Jason stepped in close. "Stand still for a moment, if you would." He plucked at the shoulders of Greg's jacket. "Lift your arms, please." When Greg did, Jason nodded once. "Excellent. It feels comfortable? No binding?"

"No." Greg hunched his shoulders and moved his arms.

"Well, it _looks_ terrific. You're going to turn some heads, I promise."

There was only one person's head he was concerned with, but he didn't say that. "And you really won't tell me what Mycroft is wearing."

"Nope. He said it was a surprise."

"It is. It's my rule." Greg grinned.

"Oh, so you're changing your mind? You don't trust me?"

"Well, of course—"

"You don't trust _him_?"

"Of course I do."

"So you're just being…" Jason raised an eyebrow.

"Nosy."

"Admitting it is the first step," Jason said, imperfectly stifling a smirk. He picked an invisible bit of lint off Greg's shoulder and met his eyes in the mirror. "The event is tomorrow?"

Greg's stomach flipped. "Yep."

Jason smiled. "Well, relax. You two going to have a terrific time."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He felt Mycroft's hands close on his upper arms and pull him back against his chest. "It's intoxicating knowledge," he murmured directly into Greg's ear. With a shiver, Greg came over entirely in gooseflesh. "And, if I'm not mistaken, a perfect beginning to our night." He draped a white scarf about Greg's neck: soft, formal, and one he'd never seen before._
> 
> _Greg closed his eyes. "Me, aroused and unable to do anything about it."_
> 
> _"Pleasure deferred," Mycroft said, and he pulled away to lead Greg out the door._
> 
> At long last, it's the night of the gala. Greg and Mycroft find themselves ending the night in a different position from how they began it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to my betas WearItCounts, BakerStMel, and Mazarin221B, who always manage to find time to help me—even when time is tight and life looms large. I am thankful for their friendship and support.

“God. Look at you.” Greg didn’t know what to take in first: the grosgrain ribbon on the side of Mycroft's trousers disappearing up into his jacket, or the precision peak of his collar. The subtle white-on-white stripe of his silk shirt, or the daring flash of claret in his pocket square. Or the entirety of him altogether: the long, lean, graceful line, the sharp angle of black against a crisp white front. Greg couldn’t stop staring.

Neither could Mycroft. The expression on his face was even more glorious than his clothing; he looked, more than anything, stunned. He scanned Greg from head to toe, and when he reached the floor he worked his way back up again. 

After a few long moments of study, Greg squirmed. Being examined naked he could handle, but being examined fully clothed in the clear light of the sitting room was… something else entirely. 

"Yeah?” said Greg.

"I just." Mycroft shook his head, negating his thought.

”Something wrong?”

Mycroft swallowed hard and cleared his throat. ”I’m just. I'm just looking. At you."

Greg smirked nervously. "What are you hoping to see?"

Mycroft looked at him again, head to toe. "Just this."

"You don't only get to look, you know."

Mycroft's eyes went dark just like _that._ In a flash. "Oh, I'm aware."

 _Christ._ Greg tilted his head sideways and gazed back at him, feeling the giddy prickle of awareness in the pit of his stomach and along his forearms. The heat in Mycroft's eyes was stirring. Mycroft stared at him half-lidded, hazy and turned on by what he saw. Greg swallowed, realising that his mouth was incredibly dry.

“I, er.” Mycroft gestured to Greg’s wrists. “Might I make a substitution?” He held out his hand, and in his palm was a set of cufflinks: silver with mother-of-pearl, and something black ringing round it. They were ten times more beautiful than the dull silver pair Greg had on, the ones acquired at some point in his thirties and unearthed from the bottom of his underpants drawer.

“There's that dressing the doll thing again,” Greg said, but the joke didn’t dissipate the stony tension sitting in his gut. Mycroft stepped in close. Body heat pressed in on Greg like a summer stormfront, and the knot in his stomach tightened. His deliberation lasted only a moment.

Heart thundering in his ears, he lifted up his wrist. He heard Mycroft's breath speed as he tucked the new link through, and he didn't know where to look; the intensity of Mycroft's expression was far, far too much, but the nimbleness of Mycroft's fingers made Greg want to suck them into his mouth, and lord knew if he gave into that particular impulse they'd never leave the house. When he'd finished, Mycroft's fingertips brushed the skin of Greg's inner wrist, and it raised gooseflesh.

"Next," Mycroft said quietly, and without saying a word Greg raised his other hand.

When the next link was through, Mycroft let his wrist go, but he didn't step back out of Greg's space. Instead he placed both hands on his shoulders and pinned him with a glance.

"There," he said.

Greg looked back. "Much better."

"Much."

"Now that you've finished dressing me to your satisfaction."

"Mine? You aren't satisfied?"

"No. You know what you could do about that, if you wanted."

"I'm afraid the watchword of the evening is 'pleasure deferred.'"

"At least until the event is over."

"Until then."

"I'm developing some very particular ideas about the kind of satisfaction."

"As am I."

Greg licked his lips. The movement drew Mycroft's eye. He didn't look away. "I don't suppose you'd…describe those ideas to me."

"Pleasure deferred."

"Maybe just." Greg's mouth was so incredibly dry. "Just a little bit of pleasure?"

Mycroft looked up from the bob of Greg's adam's apple to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, and the heaviness of his breath gusted against Greg's cheek. He swallowed and licked his lips. "The car will be here in a few minutes."

Greg stared back, locked in a war between logic and desire, ensnared by the heat in Mycroft's eyes and the myriad things they could get up to in that time. "Just kiss me," he said.

"Gregory—"

"Just kiss me. That's all."

"That's all."

"I promise."

"Just a kiss."

"Well." Greg twisted him a smile. "Maybe more than one."

"Gregory…"

"It'll be fine. I promise."

"Do you think so?"

Greg looked at the quirk of Mycroft's head, and the height of one eyebrow. The expression was so dear that Greg could melt. "Just kiss me."

Mycroft held him by the shoulders and examined him once more, head to toe. Then he slid his hands up to take Greg by the face and kiss him.

They had both just showered and dressed, and with the kiss Greg found that Mycroft had been as careful with his toilette as Greg had. He smelled of shaving foam and soap and cologne, a subtle mix, just enough to tease, and his cheeks and chin and mouth were exquisitely soft. It weakened Greg's knees and made heat pool in his abdomen, but he resisted the urge to step in close. Instead, he just let the kiss go on, touching only with mouths and breath, constantly aware of the steady buildup of tension in his lower body as he fought his instincts and his system reacted to the stimulus of the kiss. It was incredibly luxurious, letting things spool out that way: a lazy play of lips and tongues while his blood flowed to tissues elsewhere, starting to firm and fill, harden, to ache with his pulse. Mycroft's thumb dragged down Greg's jaw and he shuddered, the feel of that touch magnified through the lack of contact anywhere else.

The kiss was so tender that Greg wanted to sink his teeth into it. He moaned, and both of Mycroft's hands slid in and tightened against his scalp.

"Good thing I don't have enough hair for you to muss anymore."

"Yes, that is a shame, isn't it."

Greg grinned against his mouth. "Prat."

He felt a puff of Mycroft's laughter an instant before he was swept into another kiss. It had been a long, long time since he'd simply made out, not as a means to an end but as an end in and of itself. He felt young and free and _shatteringly_ in love.

Mycroft broke off the kiss to murmur against Greg's mouth. "You smell delicious."

"That's what _I_ usually say."

"It's my turn."

"Is it," Greg said, incendiary pleasure burning hotter in his chest, dangerously close to settling something alight. The car would be there any moment. The intensity of the kissing had already disturbed the carefully-crafted line of his tuxedo trousers.

"Tonight," Mycroft continued, the smell and the heat and the feel of him scattering Greg's good judgement, "I plan to treat you as you deserve."

"That's…" Greg rasped, and cleared his throat. "Is that meant to be a warning or a promise?"

Mycroft laid a soft, languid kiss just in front of Greg's ear, preceded by the tiniest, tantalising flick of his tongue. Greg's knees wobbled. This had been a terrible idea; Mycroft seemed to have thrown himself into it as if it were some sort of competition, and if the goal was to maintain equilibrium, Greg was _losing_.

Badly.

"Christ, I want you."

Mycroft's chuckle was infuriating, but as Greg slid against him, it was clear he was becoming just as aroused as Greg was. "Is that so."

"Don't tell me you—" Greg's retort shattered as Mycroft cupped his nascent erection and _pressed_. "Oh fucking hell."

"You did promise just kissing."

"I seriously underestimated."

"That can't be…comfortable," Mycroft said, and Greg was shocked to feel him easing down the zip, tooth by tooth. With a moan, Greg's mind fast-forwarded to the feel of Mycroft's hand inside his pants. He _craved._

"You're a dangerous bastard."

"At last you understand," Mycroft purred, and the zip lowered another inch.

From inside Mycroft's trouser pocket, his mobile rang.

Greg groaned.

"That will be our ride," said Mycroft.

Greg stepped back and scrubbed his face with both hands. "Some timing."

"But not unexpected."

"No." Greg willed away his erection as he did up his zip again. " _Fuck._ "

"I apologise," said Mycroft, and it sounded as if he meant it.

"No," Greg said, and forced a smile. He stepped in close for easier reassurance. "You're sexy and gorgeous." He leaned in even further to leave a kiss of his own on Mycroft's cheek. His head swam with stymied arousal and a dense, achingly-soft affection that was manifesting as joy. "And perfect. You're perfect for me." When he pulled back, the expression on Mycroft's face was pure shock. Greg felt wrong footed. "What?"

For once, glibness seemed to escape him. His mouth open twice before he actually spoke. "I…" is all he said, however, and he continued to stare at Greg in astonishment.

A picture started to form: this man, emotionally insecure and inexperienced, but with worlds of passion deep beneath his skin, rocked to the core by an admission of...whatever Greg was admitting. Commitment. Trust. Faith in them. Belief in their suitability. Belief in their _sustainability_.

Perhaps Mycroft had never conceptualised them as a matching pair in just that way.

Until he'd said it, Greg hadn't either.

There was a pang in his chest as he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft's mouth; he ached with love and the desire to care for him. He whispered, "Nothing so casual," then pulled away.

The look in Mycroft's eyes was even more full than it had been a moment before, and the atmosphere felt delicate, fragile as spun glass. He dragged his nose along Mycroft's as slowly as possible, laid another kiss on his lips, then as he pulled back untied Mycroft's bow tie with a flip of his hand. Greg delighted in the startled expression on Mycroft's face.

"And what was that meant to accomplish?" asked Mycroft in a mild voice, quiet enough not to disturb the hush of the moment.

"Retribution."

"For?"

"Winding me up."

"Luckily I have plenty of experience tying this in a car."

"You don't want to address the charges I've levelled?" Greg let himself smirk, and, incrementally, the tension in the room eased.

Mycroft licked his lips and left Greg's sphere of influence to grab their overcoats. "It's a small price to pay." He slung his coat over his arm and held out Greg's for him to slip his arms in.

"For leaving me hard?" Greg tried to shrug on his coat without rumpling himself too badly, wishing it were appropriate to wear the new one.

He felt Mycroft's hands close on his upper arms and pull him back against his chest. "It's intoxicating knowledge," he murmured directly into Greg's ear. With a shiver, Greg came over entirely in gooseflesh. "And, if I'm not mistaken, a perfect beginning to our night." He draped a white scarf about Greg's neck: soft, formal, and one he'd never seen before.

Greg closed his eyes. "Me, aroused and unable to do anything about it."

"Pleasure deferred," Mycroft said, and he pulled away to lead Greg out the door.

Greg scrubbed his hands over his face, blew out a steadying breath, and followed.

* * *

The grand ballroom was just that: a ballroom, and even grander than Greg had imagined. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, crowning the guests with glittering glamour, and there was a small orchestra set up in the corner. Everything was elegance, and Greg felt like a bumbling fool lost in a sea of grace.

That is, until Mycroft stepped in close and he was reminded: he wasn't lost. And he wasn't alone. He had a guide through all of this, a guide who was standing so near Greg could feel his body heat at his shoulder. And the guide loved him. Without question, loved him. And what's more, he was making a public declaration that he did so.

Stifling the urge to lean against his shoulder, Greg allowed himself to be steered toward one of the less-populated corners of the room.

"Well. This is a thing," Greg said. "Still sure you want to do this?"

"Are you?"

"What have I said about answering my question with a question?"

Mycroft twitched a smile. "Would you like some champagne?"

He snorted. "Like you wouldn't believe," he said, and watched Mycroft slip away to hunt down a waiter. Greg resisted the urge to shove his hands into his pockets, and instead focused on the crowd. It looked like…every other gathering of the great and the good he'd seen in films, though perhaps a little heavier and a lot more grey. Mycroft returned with two glasses just in time for the boys' club on their left to burst into raucous laughter.

"So then I said to her," Greg murmured, "'Mildred, if I'd wanted the Maserati washed with that disgusting _plebeian_ tap water, I wouldn't have bought stock in Evian.'"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Gregory."

"You don't know where it's been. It could have been _in the Thames_."

" _Gregory._ "

"Sorry. I'm just…" Greg gestured around them. _Cracking jokes is easier._

"Is there something I can do to help?"

"I expect the champagne will do.”

"Then by all means." Mycroft was trying not to smile.

"What, don't want your friends to hear me?"

"Friends, Gregory?"

"Fine. Acquaintances."

"I would just prefer not to have to play the diplomat too much tonight."

"Tonight?"

Mycroft pinned him with a look that had a lot more seduction in it than Greg would ever have expected. "Tonight is for pleasure. Not for work."

"I thought you said you'd have to disappear every once in a while to network."

"Needs must. But I plan to do it as little as possible."

Greg stared back, and his stomach flipped. He took a quick sip of his champagne, but couldn't break eye contact over the rim of the flute. "That's. Er. That's appreciated."

"It's purely self-interest, I assure you."

"Is that so."

"You are incredibly handsome. I'd be a fool not to find ways to be near you as much as possible."

"So basically I'm your arm candy."

Mycroft leaned over to murmur into his ear. " _Nothing so casual._ "

The feel of his breath against his neck left a pleasant sizzle in Greg's stomach, and he was left to wallow in it when Mycroft suddenly stepped a respectable distance away and, nonchalant expression on his face, drank his own champagne. Too right; Greg was very aware that they were in public, and standing among those who may not be interested in seeing two middle-aged men flirt. For that matter, Mycroft might want to limit how much he revealed to his colleagues. It was enough that he'd invited Greg along at all.

"Why are we here?"

The question seemed to surprise Mycroft. "You're asking now?"

"Seeing all this has made me realise: you probably hate these sorts of events."

His mouth was a line. "Would you like the truth?"

"You'd lie to me otherwise?"

"I'd change the subject otherwise."

"Then yes." Greg fiddled with the stem of his flute. "Truth." _Or dare. I dare you to kiss me._

Mycroft considered his wording. "Usually I dislike these events. But tonight, I plan to enjoy myself."

"Why?"

"I'm mercurial."

Greg laughed, and it went a long way toward easing the flutter of tension in his stomach. "Yes, of course. That's your primary trait."

"Inconstant."

"No."

"Capricious."

"Puckish?"

"My primary trait."

Greg hid the width and joy of his smile inside his glass; he was feeling tremendously exposed, there in that majestic ballroom with the wealth of several countries spinning round him. "But really."

"I've done nothing out of the ordinary. Others in this room have brought their partners along."

 _Partner._ "I think if you asked them, they'd find the idea of you, here, with me, to be _extremely_ out of the ordinary."

"People seem to like attending formal gatherings with their partners. I was curious why." Mycroft looked him up and down. "And now I understand."

Greg was worried that if he began blushing people might suspect their conversation of being a lot more seductive than it was; even so, he had to admit to a very strong urge to drag Mycroft into a private room somewhere and have it off with him, tuxedo or no. He looked Mycroft head to toe in return. "I can't say the experience is always terrible for the partner, either."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Greg leaned closer to be heard, but spoke over the rim of his glass while gazing out over the crowd. "I've already demonstrated what the sight of you in that ensemble does to me."

It flustered Mycroft, which lit a certain amount of heat in Greg's stomach. "Yes. Well. Be…er. Be that as it may."

"Should I remind you of what happened back at the house?"

"I would prefer not."

"Dangerous?"

"Very."

"I think the sex tonight is going to be spectacular."

" _Gregory_."

"I only hope I don't come all over your expensive—"

"—Ambassador," Mycroft cut in more loudly, shooting Greg a warning glance before stepping away to catch the woman walking past. Smug, Greg had some more champagne. Mycroft was rattled. Good. If Greg could keep reminding him of sex, perhaps he'd be just as on edge as Greg was—though sexual frustration was a slightly different animal than feeling outclassed. He tuned in when Mycroft said his name.

"Ambassador Connolly, may I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade. DCI Lestrade, Ambassador Connolly."

"I hope you don't call him that entire thing when you're at home," she said, smiling and friendly as she shook Greg's hand.

"Wait—is he not meant to?" Greg joked.

"Might be a mouthful when asking for the salt."

"We muddle through."

"I bet you do." She sparkled and grinned, and Greg liked her instantly. "So, Mycroft darling, you've finally deigned to join the masses."

"In what, dare I ask?"

"In the land of the plus one, obviously. Nice, isn't it? A guaranteed person to chat to who won't always want to talk about work. And someone to hold your bag when you run to the loo."

Greg smirked and took a sip of his champagne. He was going through the stuff like water.

"I can't say that has ever been a problem for me," Mycroft said.

"No, I imagine it wouldn't be, would it. To hold your glass, then?" She grinned. "Anyway, it's nice to see you here, Detective Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade." She pronounced each word as if lifting something heavy.

"Likewise."

"You'll want to watch out for this one. Sure, he's handsome enough, but he'll soon have you devoting all your resources to ferreting out wrongdoing in Her Majesty's Treasury before you can say the words 'independent consultant'."

"That only happened one time, Ambassador," Mycroft said, but rather than sounding angry, he sounded amused. Who _was_ this woman?

"And now I'm off to save Lawrence. He _is_ holding my bag." Connolly smiled at them both and wandered away, leaving Greg feeling much, much more relaxed.

"You did that on purpose," he accused Mycroft.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ambassador Connolly. You called her over so she'd be the first person I was introduced to."

"Of course."

"Because you knew I'd like her."

"Yes."

"Sneaky bastard." Mycroft tried to look as innocent as possible, which of course Greg didn't buy for a hot minute. But he supposed Mycroft might also be uncomfortable with the newness of the situation, so Greg took pity on him. 

"You've really never brought a date?"

Mycroft was trying to look dry and aloof. "Who would you imagine I would have brought?"

"I…don't know. Someone."

"No." Mycroft took a sip of his champagne and didn't meet Greg's eye. "No, I've never before brought someone."

"So why me, now?"

"You know why, Gregory."

"Nothing so casual?"

Something subtle eased in Mycroft's expression. "Precisely."

Slowly, Greg smiled. Neither of them looked away for a long, heavy moment.

Across the room, the chamber orchestra started up again with a familiar song that reminded Greg of 1940s dance halls, and for a brief moment he entertained the fantasy of dancing slowly together, swaying close. He swallowed hard. "So. Talk me through who else is here."

Mycroft drank more champagne before turning round to stand at Greg's side, the better to point out distinct members of the crowd. "Directly to our left. The shorter man standing in that knot of jackals is Standish. Decent, and a consummate _gentleman_ compared with the crowd he usually runs with. He manages it by playing one against the other until they run themselves ragged, then steps in with the logical solution. Admirable. He also has a habit of knitting in his office, but that's a secret."

Greg grinned. "And how do you know?" he said, just to get a rise out of him. Mycroft only raised an eyebrow. Snickering, Greg prompted him for more.

"There is a man over in that far corner talking to a dark-haired woman. Brown hair, both of them, though hers is darker, and while he has a square jaw her face is round and pleasant."

"Dark blue gown?"

"Yes. They live in New York. He's FBI, and—"

"They're Americans?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "It _is_ an international gathering, Gregory." Feeling adequately chastened, and quite a bit idiotic, Greg gestured for him to continue. "He's FBI, works with a rather…interesting criminal consultant, and she's his wife. She's a very adept event planner."

"And you've worked with him."

"In point of fact," Mycroft said lightly, "she purchased one of my paintings."

Greg blinked. "I didn't know you'd sold any."

"A few." Mycroft looked pleased that he'd surprised him. He sipped his drink as if he were a cat and the champagne were cream.

"You're _fantastic_ ," Greg said, not caring how besotted it made him sound.

Mycroft seemed to revel in the compliment, his eyes shining as he stared back at Greg with probably more pure adoration than he'd intended.

Then he blinked and broke their gaze and hid behind his drink again. Greg allowed it, but mentally filed away the look to moon over at a later date; if he kept thinking about it now, he might not be able to keep his hands to himself, and that was vital, no matter how much he ached to touch him.

Mycroft stood up incrementally straighter, and his energy seemed to become more distilled. "Sir Robert." He inclined his head to Gregory. "Excuse me," he said, and moved off before Greg could so much as twitch a nod.

 _And the work begins,_ Greg thought, and occupied himself with his champagne. He zoned out, surveying those round him in the casual, scanning way he studied all crowds, and kept hold on his patience with both hands until Mycroft returned with an eyeroll and a sip of his drink.

"The general will make things a bit uncomfortable at the head table, I expect."

"Why?"

"He's been trying to secure funding for a new tank, and they've been putting him off."

"I wonder what it's like to completely leave your work at the door. Sounds relaxing."

Mycroft hummed. "I saw you watching the crowd."

"Yeah," Greg said with a twist to his mouth.

"It's something we have in common. And I appreciate that."

"I have to admit, though, it's pleasant not to…have…to…" Mycroft's eyes had got very large very fast, and Greg didn't think it was related to the conversation. "What?"

"I suggest you turn round."

When Greg did, his heart did something very strange in his chest, both sinking to his shoes and trying to strangle him at the same time. "Vic." She was the last person he expected to see there among the foreign officials and the governmental bigwigs.

"Greg." Her eyes scanned him. "You're looking good."

"So are you." She was, too; she wore a long, glittering dress in a dark, dark red that looked like blood, but her lips were pale and shining, and her hair was up off her neck. It suited her very much. "I…" He coughed a laugh. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to see you either." Her eyes flicked over his shoulder and she held out her hand. "Victoria Swanson."

"Er…" Greg fumbled his way back to solid ground. "Victoria, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Victoria." _Though you already knew that._

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Same," she said as they shook hands. "So Greg, what _are_ you doing here?"

The moment of truth had arrived, and Greg was determined not to fuck it up. "Mycroft is—"

"When I received the invitation and saw it included a plus-one, Gregory agreed to accompany me."

A softer sell than 'we're dating,' certainly, and more gentle than the 'Mycroft is my boyfriend' he'd been about to say before being cut off. Even then, the statement seemed to confuse her. "Oh." She blinked. "Oh, you're here…" There was a vague gesture between them.

"I'm actually surprised Sharon never said," said Greg.

"She knew?"

"She…" Greg looked at Mycroft briefly for a flash of support. "Yes. She knows about us."

The penny dropped even further. "Oh. _Oh._ " She began to smile, just slightly, and a vague look of wonder settled somewhere round her eyes. "Oh." The smile grew. "And I had no idea."

Her expression was making Greg uncomfortable. "Yeah, I didn't… It's just…" He had no idea where that sentence was going.

Mycroft threw him a life preserver. "Sharon is wonderful. You must be very proud of her."

For a moment, Victoria just looked at him as if he'd spoken something in Elvish, but to her credit she recovered quickly. She was recovering from the surprise of _all of this_ rather quickly. "I am, yes. Sorry, you met?"

"When she visited Gregory, I had the pleasure of joining them for supper. And she, in her charming way, managed to involve me in a film night. It was apparently an irritant to her system that I hadn't yet seen Pulp Fiction, and she couldn't move on until she'd rectified the situation."

Victoria chuckled. "That sounds about right. Did you like it?"

"It was… I believe the appropriate word would be _educational_."

"Well. Tarantino isn't everyone's cup of tea," she said. "But I'm sure she was glad you can cross it off your list now."

"I believe, rather, that now she's creating an entire list of films I need to see."

"Yeah, she'll assign homework if you're not careful. She can be a real tyrant about it." She smiled. "Listen, I'm sorry, but my—" She pointed across the room. "My date is back, so I should…"

"It was very nice to meet you," Mycroft said.

"It was. Greg, I'll talk to you later?"

Greg had finally felt as if he'd been about to get his feet under him, and now she was going. "Yeah. Yes. Have fun."

"That's the plan." She smiled and slipped away into the crowd.

Immediately, Greg began scanning for a waiter. "I need a drink. Yesterday."

Mycroft produced a second flute of champagne from nowhere. "I suspected."

"God, I adore you." He realised it may have been a bit indiscreet for the situation, but it was too late to call the words back. He felt Mycroft's stare burning its way into the side of his face. Greg tried to sip his drink gracefully, but ended up guzzling half the glass.

"She is not what I expected," said Mycroft, his voice tight.

"Oh?"

Mycroft appeared to be assembling the words into the right order. "She seemed a lot more…at ease."

"Actually…" Greg turned to stare after her. She was laughing and talking with a group. As he watched, a tall, ruggedly-handsome man gone entirely silver rested his hand on her lower back. He looked like he belonged in an advertisement for Viagra, sitting in a bathtub outside in an artfully-rural setting overlooking the mountains. _Jesus_. "She does. You're not wrong. Who's that she's with?"

"American State Department."

"…Ah."

"Gregory." Mycroft's hand on his elbow pulled his attention away from the cluster of people and to his face. "Would you like to leave?"

"What? No. Of course not." Greg wished he could reassure him with a kiss. "No, it's just…a little weird. Unexpected."

"We don't have to stay if it's making you uncomfortable."

Warmth spread through Greg's chest at the solicitous look on Mycroft's face. Greg knew it was no empty offer, but he also had developed the suspicion that it might create political difficulties for Mycroft later on if he just disappeared, so the fact that he had suggested it was incredibly sweet. Greg was so _thankful_ for him. "No, love, it's fine. I'll get over it."

There was a brief twitch in Mycroft's eyebrow, but then he raised his glass. "To getting used to new situations."

Greg couldn't help smiling. He clinked his glass against Mycroft's. "No kidding," he said, and drank deep.

* * *

They sat in their seats early, before the others at the table were settled, and Mycroft took advantage of the brief moment of privacy to make a toast.

"Gregory." He raised his champagne flute. "I cannot begin to express the pleasure your presence here has brought me. It's a sea-change, and worlds for the better. Thank you for joining me tonight. I am…" He swallowed hard. "It has been a gift. You are a gift. And I'm grateful for you every moment of every day. Please, never believe I am insensible to how lucky I am to have you in my life. Thank you. For everything."

Greg's lungs couldn't expand enough to draw breath. When they finally managed it, the inhale was juddering and awkward. He let it out slowly and he tried to form words, but couldn't focus. "I thought I said I prefer my declarations in private."

"I disregarded it."

"I want to kiss you so badly right now," he murmured.

"I'm sorry that you can't."

"Did you really expect me not to be…affected by that?"

Mycroft was looking intently at him, that strange light still in his eye. "Shall we drink now?" he said, but he didn't move.

"Sure, but I can think of several things I'd rather do with my mouth."

"Do I want to hear this list right now?"

"Do you?" Greg knew his expression was more than fond, but he finally didn't care what anyone else saw between them. He felt effervescent with emotion and champagne.

"I have my suspicions, and I'd like to hear you say it. But later. At home."

"Yeah, I'm not sure I should right now."

"You don't trust my control?"

"I don't trust mine."

Mycroft licked his lips. "I'm going to drink this toast, and face forward, and try to focus on the meal. I pray you'll do the same."

"Why does it look like a bread roll is not the thing you actually want to swallow?"

"…Drink your champagne, Gregory."

Greg gulped his drink, and it burned all the way down. He suspected he was in over his head. It was either focus on Mycroft, which would mean submitting fully to the overwhelming surge of emotion crackling between them, or allow himself to be pulled into a conversation about foreign policy he had no business joining.

In the end, he didn't have a choice. Soon after they were served, an older woman seated on the other side of Mycroft interrupted his reverie.

"Holmes, with whom are you sitting?"

Mycroft pasted on a smile, and Greg wondered when he had begun to be able to sort Mycroft's smiles into 'sincere' and 'fake.' "Madam Commissioner, may I introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. Gregory, this is—"

"Metropolitan Police?" she asked, her mouth full of salad.

"Yes, ma'am." Mycroft didn't seem at all surprised to be interrupted.

She pierced Greg with her gaze, and took him in. Greg felt himself assessed, catalogued, and sorted in ten seconds. She shoved another forkful into her mouth as her eyes narrowed. "I expect you're here because you want the Superintendent's position next year."

Greg choked a bit, swallowing down his surprise. What was he meant to say to that?

"The Chief Inspector is here with me," Mycroft chimed in.

She scowled. "Is that so."

"And furthermore, his priorities aren't as calculated as you assume."

Finally, she peeled herself away from staring at Greg's hair to look at Mycroft. "Explain."

"I agree that most people run toward a career for prestige and money. However, DCI Lestrade prefers to act where he believes he can do the most good—which, as it happens, is in a hands-on role within a department where he has a stellar record and an unrivaled ability to elicit their best work from those who fall under his supervision. We could use more remarkable officers like him, rather than those who scrape toward advancement for advancement's sake. Wouldn't you say so?"

Her mouth twisted, and she didn't seem convinced. But still she gave Mycroft half a nod and speared a bit of tomato. "I suppose that could be true."

Greg wondered how he'd come to be participating in some sort of Jane Austen pastiche. Next he expected her to ask if he had £10,000 a year and whether he overwintered at Pemberley. He swallowed a laugh and burned with indignation.

"I don't see why you've brought him," she went on. "You've turned down that Lauren Hastings repeatedly, and she would have been a much more appropriate guest."

Greg boggled down at his plate. Under the table, he felt Mycroft surreptitiously presses the outside of his foot against Greg's.

"Mrs DeRoque has been married for a number of years, ma'am."

"Ridiculous. I would know if she were."

"The wedding was in Nice. I believe you were occupied with the affair in Bolivia at the time," Mycroft said.

"Was I?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hm," was all she said, and Greg thought the conversation was over. But just as he'd started to enjoy his meal again, she broke her too-short silence. "You couldn't find someone else?"

Greg blinked. He caught the eye of the dark-haired woman across the table (Jane? Judy? He'd been introduced, but he'd been introduced to far too many people that evening), and she looked as if _she_ were the one being cross-examined by a tablemate. Her mouth was ajar, the fork stopped halfway there.

"Are you suggesting my guest is unsuitable?" said Mycroft.

The entire room seemed to hang on the answer to Mycroft's question, though Greg knew only their table was listening. The Commissioner glanced across Mycroft to Greg, then gave a half-shrug. "It's no business of mine who you choose to invite," she said, but the sentiment echoed hollowly as she excavated deep into her salad for treasure.

"No," said Mycroft. "It is not."

"Do what you like."

 _Thank you, we will,_ thought Greg, but fortunately for them both Mycroft continued to have it all well in hand. "In the past you've had considerable respect for my decisions," he said, "and I assure you, this decision is no different."

She barely nodded, but went on eating with the majority of her focus.

Judy-Jane across the table had blinked enough to stir up a small hurricane, but now was absentmindedly eating her food as if she couldn't believe what had just happened. Greg knew how she felt.

Thankfully, her dinner companion (to whom, honestly, Greg couldn't remember if he'd been introduced or not) initiated a conversation about the economy and the modernisation of infrastructure, and Greg felt free to zone out for a while.

Until he felt Mycroft's hand slide onto his knee, hidden by the tablecloth. "Are you all right?" he murmured.

"Are you?"

"Just fine."

"Are you sure?"

The corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked. "Indeed."

"I don't want you to—"

"I assure you, I'm fine. I'm rather enjoying myself."

Which Greg was forced to accept. He gave Mycroft's hand a quick squeeze, then picked up his fork again. Across the table, Jane-Judy wore the tiniest of smiles, and while pushing his vegetables into a mound, Greg spent a few suspicious moments wondering what she was smiling at. Was she laughing at them? Forming her own cross-examination? But then she caught his eye and the smile broadened incrementally into something encouraging.

He marvelled at how much society had changed over the last thirty years. Theoretical awareness was nothing to how many people tonight—certain company excepted—were giving him smiles instead of sneers.

Or perhaps it was just that very few people dared get on Mycroft's bad side.

With this crowd, that possibility couldn't be disregarded.

* * *

"Shit," Greg murmured to himself, peeking surreptitiously at his phone. "It's Donovan," he replied to Mycroft's quiet, questioning 'hm'. "I've told her not to phone me unless it's an absolute emergency." He grimaced at him and the others in their group as they clustered after dinner, waiting for the chamber group to start back up. "I'm sorry, I've got to take this."

"I hate when that happens," said someone in the circle as he walked away, and he vaguely heard them commiserating about work intrusions as he put the mobile to his ear.

" _What._ " he said to her.

"…God. Sorry. I know you told me not to phone unless—"

"Sorry." He instantly felt badly for snapping at her. "Just, tell me."

"It's Lattimer," she said. Donovan and her new DI were, so far, not a match made in heaven. Which was no surprise; he was a favourite of Pitts's, and Pitts and Greg's team had rarely seen eye-to-eye on a number of tactics. "I don't know if—" She stopped and made a noise of frustration. "Never mind. It was a mistake to phone you."

"No, what."

Sally sighed. "He's just… He's being a moron again. God, this incredibly childish of me. Go. I'll deal with it."

"What's the fucker doing?"

She snorted. "Go back to your fancy soiree. Is there a photo of you in your tux?"

"No, thank god."

" _Shame_." She sighed at him like a pantomime princess, then started snickering.

"Oh, go away. Tell Lattimer if he doesn't behave I have a whole room of people here who could make his life—no, don't tell him that. Sorry."

"Gonna sic the entirety of the British Secret Service on him?"

"I'm going back to my champagne now. Text me if you really, really need my help."

"I won't."

"I know." She was more than capable of dealing with any bullshit Lattimer threw at her, and what's more she knew it. Greg thought she probably just needed to blow off some steam. "Do you want me to see about reassignment?"

"Don't know yet."

"Well, I'll look into it tomorrow. In the meantime, phone Hopkins if you need backup. He's charming enough he could probably use Lattimer's head for a footstool and make Lattimer thank him for the privilege."

"True."

"And I have two words for you: Inspector's test."

"Two words: I am."

"Good." He grinned. "I'm hanging up on you now."

"Good," she said, but she managed to do it first.

Playground monitor. This was his life now.

Before he went back to the knot of conversational partners, he waylaid a blond waiter and grabbed a fresh glass of champagne for fortification. Dinner had soaked up the alcohol in his system, so everything was becoming nerve-wracked and jittery at the edges, and he rather missed the softness.

The waiter turned away and bumped into a woman, and Greg could have sworn he saw him take something out of her bag. He hesitated, stuck between his obligations as an officer and the social pressure of the event. Then he shook his head; the staff here were thoroughly vetted. Likely Greg was just seeing things. As usual.

As he walked back to the group, the chamber orchestra started back up. Feeling brazen, he leaned in and murmured to Mycroft as he repocketed his mobile. "I don't suppose if I asked you, you would dance with me." The brief horror that flashed over Mycroft's face was all the answer he needed. "No, sorry."

"Gregory—"

"No, that's fine. I really shouldn't have asked. Momentary lapse."

"Gregory—"

Greg couldn't tell if he was honestly disappointed that Mycroft had said no. "I'm not sure I could have gone through with it even if you'd said yes." He made the mistake of looking into Mycroft's eyes, and the sadness in them was deep and dark and complete. "Oh god. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry I asked. I shouldn't have."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. It was a rare sight, Mycroft at a loss for words. This time, Greg didn't like it.

"Please." Greg fumbled for a company-appropriate way to reassure him. He ended up grabbing his forearm and trying to make the touch as warm and affectionate as he dared. "I know. I know perfectly well that—"

"Sometimes I think…" Mycroft started, "I make things far too difficult for you."

"You're not planning to fall on your sword, right? Because I won't let—"

"I just wish I could be the sort of person you could dance with in public."

"Maybe someday." Greg squeezed his arm, but Mycroft didn't look convinced. "Never say never."

"I won't."

"You're here with me, aren't you? That's not nothing. I wonder if you ever thought you'd have had a plus one as handsome as I am," Greg said, trying to joke him out of his sudden funk.

It didn't make him laugh, but it did turn the sadness into something warm and shatteringly affectionate, which by that light was even better. Greg wished for a kiss, but if a dance was beyond possibility… "I'm filing that away."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Hm?"

"I can't cash them in now, so I'm keeping a count of all the kisses you owe me. It's quite a deficit. That was number six."

"This sounds far more pleasant than the sort of accounting I'm usually involved with."

"I hope so, because if you're treating this like your job—"

"Shh," Mycroft said, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment he slid his fingers round Greg's and squeezed them before letting go. It was almost better than a hug. "We've a soloist."

The conductor nodded her to the front. The singer gained the stage in a cloud of white silk and marabou, her curls swept up into strings of pearls. She was all hips and grace and the slight charm of a smile, and her mouth was a perfect bow. When she opened it to sing, Greg was transported.

She sang a descant that sailed higher and lighter than any of the quartet, and the notes rang out until the walls seemed to glow with sound. It was sweet, and bright, and Greg's heart glided along with it. His chest felt a little too tight. Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's lower back just above the waistband of his trousers in a way that seemed both comforting and proprietary. It was a manner of touch he recognised having made himself, a gesture performed on Vic a hundred times, and Mycroft was making a quiet statement by placing his hand just _there_ , surrounded as they were by this crowd. If Greg had any remaining doubts about whether Mycroft was ready to announce his claim on Greg—on anyone—and whether he was playing for keeps, they melted away. He felt their partnership, their connection, more strongly than than he ever had before.

They were together, now.

They were together.

And Mycroft loved him.

Greg felt Mycroft's hand slide away, but before he could register disappointment he was jolted back into awareness by the touch of Mycroft's fingers; their backs grazed against Greg's knuckles with a shock of electricity, then they pressed against, held, slid, and, one by one, insinuated between from behind. Greg felt invaded, as if Mycroft were stealthily pushing into the cracks of him, knitting them further together with just the touch of their hands. It was monstrously intimate. And standing surrounded by Mycroft's colleagues, peers of several realms and diplomats of more, with performers so close Greg could see the sweat on their brows, was even worse; they were vulnerable, there. Visible.

If Greg had thought Mycroft was making a statement with a hand on his back, that was nothing to what he was doing now.

It took a massive amount of control for Greg not to break when all he wanted was to turn and grab him and kiss him so forcefully his jaw would ache. He wanted to invade right back. So he was already climbing toward a fevered pitch of sublimated desire when Mycroft withdrew, unfurled his hand, and brushed his fingertips across Greg's palm.

He bit down on a groan. The chamber music was starting to become a wall of noise now, and the small audience were gathering round them in a tussle of bodies. All Greg's focus was on the gentle slip of Mycroft's hand against his; the nerve endings followed his movement like iron filings tracking a magnet. The hair on his forearms pricked into gooseflesh. His nipples hardened. Greg kept his gaze resolutely forward, afraid to see any expression on his face reflected in Mycroft's eyes. Afraid that someone else might see.

Greg fought to keep his breath even while the unbearable sensuality of the touch made the room swim. There wasn't the tiniest speck of doubt that Mycroft knew precisely what he was doing to him, and the fact that he continued meant that he was enjoying it.

_When I regain the power of speech, Mycroft Holmes, you are in so much goddamn trouble._

The song ended, and immediately Mycroft's hand withdrew. Greg reeled with the sudden loss of contact. He was over-aware of his rapid breath and the warmth in his cheeks, and no matter how he tried his eyes refused to focus. He shut them and sucked air deeply into his lungs for a five count, then let it out through his nose. Then he turned to chastise Mycroft.

And all of his words shrivelled in his throat. Rather than anything victorious, instead the expression on Mycroft's face burned with a quiet, steady, subtle intensity. He knew what he had been doing, sure, but it hadn't been a game. He had used the space and the music and the atmosphere to communicate his intentions and the intensity of his emotion, and Greg had received them both loud and clear.

"…Oh," he murmured idiotically, and then added, "Er. H-hello."

Mycroft's mouth softened, but his eyes still bored into Greg's, and he inclined his head just slightly. A new song started up.

"I…" Greg held up his empty glass, and Mycroft's vague smile strengthened. He placed his hand once again on Greg's lower back to lead him back out into the main hall.

Heart still pounding, Greg replaced his glass with a fresh one and took a sip before facing Mycroft again. Idly, he wondered how much wine he'd gone through that evening, but then decided it didn't bear thinking about too hard. It was a very special occasion, after all.

Mycroft pressed his hand more firmly on Greg's back. A _very_ special occasion, indeed.

They did a turn about the room without any conversation whatsoever; words were largely unnecessary. Greg, for his part, didn't want to shatter the quiet intimacy they were spinning between themselves, and he suspected Mycroft felt the same. They communicated their path through body language alone, doing a full circuit and ending up on the periphery of the room near the main entrance.

Greg again spied the waiter with the blond hair, who was now pushing a drinks cart ten feet to their left and filling up the glasses for a knot of people. He finished with them and moved on to another man. While Greg watched, the man stumbled and kicked his attaché into the cart. It disappeared under it. He apologised profusely, and, laughing, took a glass of champagne from the waiter. Greg saw something black flash between their hands. Then the man pulled someone over to have a brief conversation in front of the cart for a few minutes before walking away. The waiter came round and re-dressed the tablecloth covering the cart, deftly slipping the attaché into the bottom-most shelf of the cart and moving on. The whole exchange lasted barely a minute, but by the time it was over Greg was certain he'd just watched something being sold, right under their noses.

"Mycroft," Greg said lightly. "Who is the man walking toward us with the blue tie?"

"With the curls?"

"Yes."

"Why do you ask?"

"I suppose all the waitstaff were vetted."

Mycroft's energy changed. It pulled together into something more condensed, solid, and he stared at Greg like a pointer at a hunt. "Thoroughly."

"Well, I believe I just saw him receive something from the waiter, and if you search underneath the drinks cart I think you'll find the waiter now has a case of money."

"Are you certain?"

"I also thought I saw the waiter pickpocket a woman's bag earlier."

"And you didn't say anything."

"Mycroft, do you know how often I see crimes in progress which turn out not to be crimes? Do you know how suspicious I am, after being a cop for so long?"

Without another word, Mycroft strode over to a tall, broad man with shiny hair who moved like a security agent, and murmured something into his ear. In a trice, the agent moved off into the crowd.

Mycroft had found another agent to speak with, and Greg looked for the waiter. As he watched, Waiter pushed his cart with studied nonchalance toward the kitchens. Greg followed. The waiter moved faster, and Greg dodged a laughing woman and another member of the waitstaff to keep eyes on him.

He reached a set of double doors, and the waiter had to stop and pull them open so the cart would fit through. He made the mistake of scanning the crowd, and when he looked in Greg's direction their eyes caught. They stared. Greg breathed. The waiter didn't blink. Greg stopped himself from whistling The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

The waiter licked his lips.

And his nerve broke. But when he dove under the cart for the case and bolted, Greg was only ten feet behind. Greg's purchase slipped for the first few yards before his new shoes finally bit, and when he put on a burst of speed he half-dove, half-fell into the waiter's back and bore him to the ground in a painful tumble of bones.

 _I'm getting too old for this shit,_ Greg thought, but he was grinning. "What's the rush?"

"Get off me, you fat fuck."

Greg snorted. "You're going to have to try harder than that. I've heard worse from far scarier than you."

He became aware that he was causing a bit of a scene, lying half on the kid's back and scrambling to sitting so he could wrestle his hands behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pair of very distinctive shoes—working shoes, shoes that blended in with black tie well enough but were built for service—and Greg followed the legs up to a third agent's frowning face.

"I believe I have something of yours," he said, aware he looked like he was having too much fun. Which, to be fair, he was.

"We can handle this from here," said the agent without a trace of humour.

Unabashed, Greg gave the waiter an extra shove into the floor on his way up, and brushed himself off while looking round for Mycroft. He couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

"Don't worry, I don't think I ripped anything. Me _or_ the suit," he said to Mycroft when he finally came within speaking distance. Then their gazes snagged, and something in Mycroft's eyes made Greg's stomach flip. The only word that came to mind to describe it was _burning_. Mycroft appeared to burning from the inside out, even though his face remained passive. "Mycroft…?"

"You're going to need to debrief the agents," he said, his voice tight with all the things he wasn't saying.

 _Jesus._ "That's fine. Where do I…?"

"Come with me."

Greg, Mycroft, and a neat, wide-shouldered man with brown hair gathered in a room off the main hall that looked as if it could comfortably seat thirty people round the table at its centre. Greg recounted to the man—Spencer, apparently—all he'd seen that evening, and when he was finished Spencer took down his mobile number and told him there might be some paperwork at a later date. Then he was gone, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone in that long, hollow room.

Once again, Greg caught Mycroft's eye and was stunned near to speechlessness by the intensity he saw there. He opened his mouth, but before he could stammer out anything he was crowded against the wall.

"Would you be willing to leave?"

"Now?"

"Immediately."

Greg's mouth went dry. "Are you okay?"

"I could be considerably better elsewhere."

"Like at home?"

"For a start."

Mycroft's lips were right there, and calling to him, but for decorum's sake Greg held himself back. "I'm more than happy to leave now, if that's what you want."

Mycroft slipped sideways toward the door, but he bent his head and murmured into Greg's ear as a parting shot. "Oh. _I want._ "

He was gone from the room before Greg gathered himself together enough to move.

* * *

They had been in the car and underway for a full minute before Mycroft sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It shook.

"I see," Greg said.

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure if I'm glad or not that with this suit, I didn't have handcuffs ready to go."

Mycroft's head snapped sideways to look at him. He blinked, then faced front once more, only to inhale deeply and let it out through pursed lips.

Greg considered mocking him further, but then he realised that Mycroft would use that as evidence that he should hide his own reactions better next time, and that would be tragic. Seeing the effect his takedown had on Mycroft was making Greg feel ten-foot-tall and _terribly_ virile.

It had started to drizzle as they left, and only the sound of the wipers accompanied them for several thick, heavy minutes. Mycroft's breath deepened, then he reached over and picked up Greg's hand, but rather than hold it, he placed it on his thigh instead. The muscle was tense, held taut, held still, and the feeling of its solidity under the fine wool made Greg's toes curl. It twitched once beneath Greg's hand, then again, and Greg found himself wondering if anything else was twitching to life within Mycroft's trousers. It was a serious temptation to run his hand further up the thigh to Mycroft's groin to see if he was hard, but Greg held back. It was arousing enough just imagining that Mycroft was aroused. Greg imagined that Mycroft's blood was speeding through his veins, and that his cheeks were warm, and that he was feeling that familiar buzz of adrenaline and anticipation welling deep between his legs. He'd waited for hours to be able to tear Mycroft's clothes off, and now that the moment rapidly approached Greg's patience was starting to unravel.

They sat in weighty silence for the rest of the ride, and Greg measured out the minutes by the thud of his heartbeat in his throat. It occurred to him that this relationship with Mycroft was either incredibly bad or fantastic for his cardiovascular health. He closed his eyes and hoped his patience would hold out until the car carried them to Mycroft's door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg's chest expanded with pure, quiet joy. He hadn't expected he would ever again have this in his life, never mind such an astonishing amount of love, and yet here they were. But if it was astonishing to him—with all his past experiences—for Mycroft it must be mindblowing. Worldshattering._ 'You make everything better,' _he'd said, and Greg suspected that was only the start of it._
> 
> A culmination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of generosity exhibited each week by my betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B and WearItCounts humbles me. This story wouldn't be half what it is without their feedback and support. And patience. So much patience. I am so grateful to them.

When they pulled up, Greg adjusted himself before sliding out. Dazed, he tumbled after Mycroft into the house.

…Where he was immediately shoved against the wall. Mycroft's hands caged his face, and he bruised Greg's mouth with a desperate, full-contact kiss.

Greg melted like a candle in the blazing heat of the sun.

They lurched across the foyer and to the base of the front staircase in a frenzy of gulping, panting kisses. Greg's need spiked immediately to pre-gala levels and he spun them sideways, pushing his hands underneath Mycroft's overcoat to shovel it off, grabbing fistfuls of his hair, clambering for closer contact. He lost balance and they slammed into the pillar at the side of the foyer. Air from Mycroft's lungs puffed into Greg's mouth. They both groaned.

They'd come to rest in the wan, watery spill of light down the steps from the upper landing. Mycroft grabbed Greg's head with both hands and dug in, and Greg clawed back, cutting his mouth in a maelstrom of teeth and lips and painful, gut-tumbling desire. He pressed Mycroft to the pillar and writhed, trying to invade with his body just as Mycroft had invaded with his fingers. If the noise Mycroft made into their mouths was any indication, it was having a similar effect; he sounded wrecked, overwrought, broken, desperate. The sound reverberated up through the tall ceiling and sent a resonant buzz into the base of Greg's sternum.

He softened the kiss and pushed Mycroft's jacket to join his overcoat on the floor. Without it, his arousal was glorious. Greg licked his lips. Fingers shaking with the heartpulse of adrenaline, he crooked Mycroft's wrist up to their chests and eased a cufflink out. "One…" he murmured when it was free, but then he met Mycroft's gaze.

His eyes were wide and dark—bottomless, perpetual. It was one of Greg's most favourite sights of all. For a breathless moment Greg looked back. He licked his lips.

Mycroft's eyes got even darker.

"Two," Greg said, lifting Mycroft's wrist up without breaking eye contact. He stared, and pushed the second link through. His heart thudded in his throat.

Taking his time, Mycroft shoved Greg's overcoat and jacket off his shoulders and unbuttoned his waistcoat to reveal the black-and-white dotted braces. He smiled his secret smile, the one that was like a kiss, and slipped both thumbs under the straps. "Well. These are a delight, Gregory," he murmured, so quiet the sound didn't echo.

"I picked them out just for you." He tried to swallow down his heartbeat. "I thought you might appreciate them."

"Oh, I do." Very slowly, he dropped one side off Greg's shoulder, then the other. Their locked gazes never wavered. "Is there anything else that's especially for me?"

"Well, if I remember correctly," Greg said, "I owe you six kisses." He slipped Mycroft's waistcoat and white braces from his shoulders and took a moment to stroke his hands across his chest, enjoying the texture of hair through the fine silk of his shirt. It made him hope some of those kisses might involve teeth.

“Oh, at least." One tie was gone, then the other. Mycroft's shirt pooled like liquid on the floor. Greg's shirt joined it.

They stumbled upstairs, shedding the rest of their clothing like a disused manor house being uncovered after a long absence, the sheets pulled off the furniture and dust blown away to reveal something warm and living and yearned-for underneath. He was overly aware; every move Mycroft made pricked up the hairs on Greg's forearms and echoed with a promise of pleasure in his balls.

Greg was the first into Mycroft's bedroom, falling in to find that someone had cleaned up the mess they'd made the last time they were together. "We should probably avoid the bookcase this time," he said, pressing closer and grabbing Mycroft's lush arse with both hands. He ground his body against Mycroft's.

"I think we've had enough excitement for the evening, don't you?" Mycroft stretched his neck long, and Greg took the invitation to gnaw on it. He tasted like salt and aftershave.

"I think that depends on how you're defining 'excitement'," he mumbled against Mycroft's skin. He walked Mycroft backward until his calves hit the side of his bed, then continued forward, pushing him down onto the mattress while his feet were still on the floor. Greg explored his throat, his collarbone, his nipples, his iliac crest. He licked at the tip of Mycroft's cock, ragingly-hard and dripping.

Mycroft let out a bitter moan, and he rolled his head into the duvet. "Kiss me."

"Not this?"

" _Kiss me._ "

Stomach flipping at the naked, open need in his voice, Greg tugged him upright, straddled his lap, then wrapped himself around his torso as tightly as possible. He touched every inch of Mycroft that he could reach, worshipping him beneath his palms and between his thighs. Soft skin pliable over gently-shifting muscle. It was a relief to be that close: warm, intimate, sliding together from lap to lip, breathing the same air. Mycroft's magnificence overwhelmed him.

The kiss had begun heated, but it shifted abruptly into something achingly-slow and tender. Ages and aeons passed between each brush of his lips: soft, intentional, tremulous. Greg touched his mouth to Mycroft's once, twice, each time relishing the tender insides of his lips as adoration pressed up behind his eyes and shook his breath. When Greg tasted Mycroft's lower lip with the barest bit of tongue, Mycroft shattered the moment with a pained whimper and pulled back to stare into Greg's face. His pupils were huge and dark, and his mouth was kissed red.

The world froze, and their chests heaved against each other with the weight of the moment. Greg pushed every ounce of emotion into his face. He let him see it all.

This wasn't a sweet love. It wasn't lovely or pleasant or fun. It hurt, like fingernails scraping his heart out of his chest, or being flayed open to the sky. Mycroft examined him with the full brunt of his focus, and Greg couldn't goddamn breathe for the intensity of it. Greg reined in his flash fire of emotion until it burned tight and dense and hotter than the sun.

"Same," Mycroft breathed. "Oh, god, same."

Greg whined as the heat twisted in his gut.

The kiss was searing. 

Mycroft moaned into their mouths—a loud, heart-rending noise—and scraped his nails down Greg's back from his shoulders down to his arse, pulling their bodies flush. And then he reached between them to take both their cocks in hand.

As he stroked, Greg met his gaze. He watched pleasure and adoration fill up behind Mycroft's eyes, and varying expressions of intensity chase each other across his face. They writhed in shared pleasure, gasping and shuddering, and Greg reached between them to help. Their hands slipped against each other along their joined cocks in an intimacy of touch just as powerful as the sex itself.

He lost himself in the thickness of the love between them, and the terrible beauty of their connection; there was something exquisite about working so hard at their pleasure that muscles burned and throats ached and their bodies slid together in a slick of sweat.

And yet they also both strained into it, and as he watched in Mycroft's face for how it felt, he let Mycroft read each stroke, each macro- and micro-expression in his face as well. Mycroft's jaw went slack, and he panted as a drop of sweat trickled down his temple. Greg leaned in to smear it away with his cheek.

The heat in Mycroft's eyes flared at the expression of intimacy. He made a tiny noise of anguish.

"So much." Greg pressed harder against Mycroft, and whimpered. " _I love you so much._ "

Mycroft cried out. Frenzied, Greg shoved up between them, his stomach muscles burning from the effort of curling his hips in that position, and he fought for air. He felt Mycroft grab on frantically to Greg's body—his hips, his back, his arms, his bum—and heard him keen over and over and over. Greg jacked them as hard and fast as he could and bit down on Mycroft's shoulder. Beneath, against, and around him, he felt Mycroft shake.

" _I love you,_ " Greg breathed.

With a ragged, open-hearted sob, Mycroft's orgasm hit. He jerked through it, thrusting up between their bodies in spite of Greg's weight holding him down. His fingers bruised. His cries echoed. He was tossed like a small boat in the storm.

Frozen still by the wildness of the reaction, Greg couldn't move or breathe or think. But as it petered out Mycroft slumped forward, and Greg took his weight for a few minutes, smoothing a hand down his damp spine. He murmured nonsense against Mycroft's wet hair while he came back to himself.

He was gripped with the urge to cradle him close, to keep him safe and warm and loved.

Still leaning against Greg, Mycroft snaked his hand between them and scrubbed his palm around the head of Greg's cock. It was too much at first, but when it slowed down to a steady stroke Greg held on for dear life.

The oncoming orgasm built slow but relentless. And hard. Incredibly, intolerably hard. But just when Greg was about to beg for mercy he felt the first buzz of pleasure at the point of no return, and it was too late. Rent open by the sheer volume of sensation, the dam broke. His position held his legs wide apart and tilted his body forward, and something about the angle allowed him to feel the climax all the way back through his arse. Even as it quieted he still could feel the grasping, empty pleasure of intimate muscles pulsing. Greg pushed a whine into Mycroft's neck. His skin tasted like tears. In spite of the endorphins, in spite of the liquid pleasure still shooting through his bloodstream, everything hurt.

Mycroft butted his head into Greg's temple and wrapped him tightly in his arms. He let out a long, shaky breath that choked off in a sob.

Greg held him as fiercely as possible. He exhaled. "I know." _God_. "I know." Greg cradled the back of Mycroft's head with one hand. His throat had gone tight and thick. Mycroft made a small, pained noise, and Greg rubbed his hands—slick with sweat and come—up and down his back, his own stomach clenching.

Against him, Mycroft took several harsh, rasping breaths. He was shaking with exhaustion and wracked with his own emotional turmoil, a reaction so human that Greg wondered whether he would ever witness such a thing from him again. It was immensely beautiful. Mycroft pressed a hard kiss into Greg’s temple. Then another. Greg bit his lip and screwed his eyes shut.

They held onto each other, breathing heavily, shaking, letting the emotion roll through them in waves. Mycroft adjusted his grip to pull Greg impossibly closer until his ribs were about to creak, but Greg was glad for the ache; holding steady against the pull of this much emotion was like trying to maintain equilibrium while the tide sucked at the sand beneath him. He feared that without contact he might lose his footing.

He stayed still, and held on, and after a while his heart rate settled. Greg brushed Mycroft's sweaty hair back from his forehead and pressed his lips there. "Feeling any better now?" he murmured.

It was a several seconds before Mycroft responded, during which he stroked both palms up and down Greg's back. His hands slipped with their mess. So close to Greg's ear, his swallow was loud. "Are you?"

Greg kissed his temple. "Perfect."

Beneath him he could feel Mycroft shifting his weight, and so Greg fell sideways and crawled off his lap, as weak and ungainly as a newborn colt. Mycroft stretched himself next to him and Greg wrapped himself around him to burrow in. The winter wind whistled against the side of the house as they cooled off from the emotional blaze. Mycroft smelled like Mycroft, and he felt like Mycroft, and Greg was so relieved he could scarcely breathe.

"Five days apart is too long," he said.

Mycroft's palms skidded up his back. He swallowed loudly. "I agree."

"I don't want to wait that long again."

"Nor do I."

Greg hesitated only for a moment. "I hated it," he whispered.

Mycroft breathed, then kissed him.

Half a minute was lost to a luxurious exploration: touch, smell, and taste. The familiar catch in Mycroft's breath when Greg scraped his nails along his skin. The angle of his narrow shoulders, and the chest hair creeping past his collarbone notch toward his throat. The way his body moved. He was so painfully sexy that, even sated, Greg simmered with desire.

Mycroft murmured, his breath heavy. "Pleasure deferred."

"Not that you made it easy to wait tonight, either." Mycroft lazily scratched his back, and Greg groaned. "You and your goddamn hands."

"I kept my hands to myself."

"Did you."

"And I'd appreciate the credit for it, yes. It was not easy."

"So what do you call that moment during the singer? You know very well what you were doing to me."

"If I had acted on my desires any further, we would have made a great deal of people very uncomfortable."

"And probably been arrested."

Mycroft made a dismissive noise against Greg's mouth. "Remember to whom you're speaking."

" _Disappeared_ , then."

Any attempt at a kiss was scuttled by the burst of Mycroft's laughter. Greg still wasn't used to how much a relaxed Mycroft laughed, as if now that he trusted Greg with his vulnerability his protective walls had fallen, and along with the revelation of how much he enjoyed pleasure, a youthful joy also shone through. Sex and joy and laughter, only for Greg.

It must require an incalculable level of trust.

Overwhelmed, Greg clutched on and let himself be rocked by it while Mycroft occupied himself with nuzzling into the side of Greg's head and humming. Greg felt a plucking at the hair behind his ear. "What's going on back there?" He swallowed and clawed his way back to Earth. "Are you biting me?"

"This is my favourite grey spot."

"It's _all_ grey."

"But it's lighter here, and it's my favourite. So hush." Mycroft said it calmly, as if it were perfectly reasonable to have a favourite spot of hair, and just as reasonable that one should bite it. As if Greg were the one who'd taken leave of his senses.

He squeezed harder round Mycroft's ribs, moved. Moved and delighted. "You know you're mad."

"I've been told so many times."

"And how many of those times did you have the speaker disappeared?"

"That's need-to-know information, Gregory, and not appropriate for the bedroom."

Chuckling, Greg tucked his face into Mycroft's neck and breathed. _I am so in love with you._ "Thank you for tonight."

"To resort to understatement: it was my pleasure."

"I had a fantastic time."

"Until you had to take down a miscreant in your tuxedo."

"It's funny that you think that made the night _less_ fantastic." Adoration pushed his face harder into Mycroft's neck.

"It was certainly enticing for me," he said. He sucked sloppy kisses against Greg's shoulder.

"You looked gorgeous. Just in case it needs repeating."

"And you looked stunning." Mycroft sank his teeth in for a moment, and growled. "Quite stunning."

Greg came over with gooseflesh. He shivered. "Adequate arm candy?" 

"More than. I was honoured to have you with me."

" _Honoured_? I let you buy me a tuxedo and spent the night drinking champagne. Apart from the thief, I didn't really contribute much."

"Nonsense. You contributed more than you know. More than I can describe."

Greg traced his lips with a thumb. "I don't see how."

"Gregory…" Mycroft subtly curled his hips into Greg's thigh. The air thrummed with sensuality. He murmured into Greg's ear. "You make everything better."

Greg closed his eyes and let the world go fuzzy for a moment. "Everything, hm?"

"My entire life. You make everything better."

For several moments, the only thing Greg could do was force himself to breathe. In, out. In, out. 

Mycroft loved him. He loved him to a shattering extent. And as of tonight, he'd revealed that love—and the vulnerability which rode along—to every single person at the party. For better or for worse, everyone witnessed that Greg could be used as leverage for Mycroft and that Mycroft could be used as leverage for Greg.

"You did a terrible job of hiding that tonight." He couldn't stop touching Mycroft's back. "Especially with that stunt during the solo."

"That's because I didn't intend to."

Greg's heart was a blur in his chest. "Really."

"There is no plainer signal to my colleagues what you mean to me than the simple fact of our attendance together. A touch of our hands isn't going to communicate anything else beyond my desire for you."

"That makes sense."

"But there are wider implications."

"I know."

"You've considered them?"

"Of course."

"Because in one fell swoop I threw over the image I'd been cultivating for my entire adult life, and they—"

"Mycroft, I know. I've thought it through."

Mycroft shook his head and swallowed. He looked as if he were steeling himself, as if he needed to say the words out loud, and they were uncomfortable words to say. "They know, now. They know that not only do I have a male partner, but I have a partner at all. I wouldn't have entered into a relationship with you if I didn't think you were capable of handling what that entails, but it _is_ quite a departure from the public life I've always lived. They know I'm…capable of sentiment. There's a very real possibility that things will become more difficult for me."

"Yes. This relationship is risky."

"Profoundly."

"But we knew that going in."

"And yet, such a public declaration may make it even worse."

"Why do it, then?"

Mycroft met his gaze. "I've taken greater risks for far less."

Greg's heart sped. "Sounds serious."

"It is."

They really were talking about what Greg thought they were talking about. "No walking this back."

"No."

"Commitment."

"Yes."

The universe whirled, and he couldn't breathe, and yet it didn't feel all that strange. It felt inevitable.

"I am." He felt Mycroft swallow. "I am _certain_ of you."

"You're certain of me."

"Without a shred of doubt. You're it, for me. I am, for want of a better word, done." He touched Greg's mouth, an unfamiliar frailness in his eyes. "You're it."

Romance in their relationship had been mounting in the past few weeks, but still Greg had to admit that was one of the more romantic statements he'd ever had directed at him. By anyone. Greg tried to breathe. The evening had started off with formalwear, and ended up here with Mycroft admitting that Greg was the one. It was as close to a marriage proposal as he thought Mycroft would ever get.

Before he could respond, Mycroft blinked. "I apologise. Perhaps I should have—"

"Stop." He held Mycroft's face and ducked in closer so he'd would be forced to meet his eyes. "Stop." They stared into each other for a moment. " _Nothing so casual,_ Mycroft."

Mycroft breathed as he looked. Then he made a pained noise and kissed Greg, shaking with intensity. The force of his emotion kindled a spark of insight, and Greg pressed hard kisses to Mycroft's temple, his ear, his hair, his neck. His stomach clenched, and Mycroft's hands closed harder on his hips. "You didn't know. Before I said it the other night. You didn't know."

Against his lips, Greg felt Mycroft's throat working before he spoke. "I presumed it was wishful thinking."

"I assumed you could read what was going on in my head. You read everything else. But you really didn't know."

"I couldn't trust myself. Sentiment warps perception."

"Oh god, love."

"I'm human. My deductions are coloured by my experiences and my knowledge." He kissed Greg. "And my desires."

Greg imagined Mycroft wondering if what he was seeing was real. He imagined him second-guessing himself—this man, who usually seemed to trust his own perception more than anything else. He imagined how distressing that must have been. How insecure he must have felt. How lonely. How lost.

He kissed Mycroft, striving to reassure and comfort him. "I'll do better," he said against his mouth.

"We can both do better."

"I warned you I'm not great at communication."

"I knew what I was getting into. But you're worth it." Mycroft held him. "This is more than worth it."

They held each other, and stress and the changes and the uncertainty fell away, leaving Greg keenly aware of the lateness of the hour. He stifled a yawn.

"Are you hungry?" Mycroft said. "Thirsty?"

"Both. A bit. But I don't want you to move." He was exhausted, swimming in warmth and love, and Mycroft's body was too comforting to let it go.

"In the morning I'll make us a hot breakfast."

"Have you laid in stores?"

"As a matter of fact, I have."

"Something with sausage, I hope. You know how I enjoy a bit of hot meat in my mouth."

Mycroft let out a reluctant, snickering sort of laugh. "Gregory."

"Particularly your hot meat."

" _Gregory._ "

"Bursting with juices." Greg grinned, the cheeky, lascivious one that always made the usual laser focus in Mycroft's eyes go a little fuzzy. This time, however, he looked more love-soaked than turned on.

"That's not as sexy you think it sounds."

"I'm not trying to be sexy. I hunger for something and I think you can provide it."

"If you're honestly hungry, I can cook something now, you ridiculous man."

Greg traced Mycroft's mouth. He shook his head, and his grin softened. "I just wanted to make you smile."

"You do. Every day." Mycroft met his eyes with an expression of wonder. "You make me smile every single day."

Greg's chest expanded with pure, quiet joy. He hadn't expected he would ever again have this in his life, never mind such an astonishing amount of love, and yet here they were. But if it was astonishing to him—with all his past experiences—for Mycroft it must be mindblowing. Worldshattering. _You make everything better,_ he'd said, and Greg suspected that was only the start of it. "Same."

The beatific smile that dawned on Mycroft's face made Greg ache. He kissed him again with his whole heart, and it took a very long time for that ache to ease.

But eventually, it did, and the sound of Mycroft's swallow was loud in the room. "Live with me," he said, in a voice as delicate as a snowflake. "Please."

Greg tried not to betray his surprise. "What?"

"Please consider it."

"Are you asking me to move in?"

"I want this every day."

"It wouldn't be like this every day."

"Please."

"Isn't it a bit early to move in together?"

"Is it?" Mycroft lifted his head to meet his eyes.

"I…"

"Have I misjudged?"

Greg's chest tightened. A very large part of him thought the idea sounded gorgeous, but there were intimacies between them still to be developed, and what would people think about them moving in together so damn soon? Committing to each other wasn't the same as living together. And yet: going to sleep every night cushioned by this much love would be _beautiful_. Perhaps other people's opinions didn't matter.

_Rowing playfully about how their books ought to be organised._

_Coming home to the comfort of Mycroft's arms, after a long day at work._

_Learning how hot Mycroft liked his showers, because he didn't know that yet._

Were they ready for every day?

"…No…"

Mycroft answered the conflict in his voice. "Don't decide immediately. Take a day."

"What if I don't need a day?"

"Take it anyway."

 _'For the rest of my life,'_ he remembered thinking. Greg forced himself to breathe, but he couldn't make himself break their gaze. "…Okay."

"Only think about it."

"Okay."

They both fell silent, lost in separate thoughts while Mycroft laid a kiss in the centre of Greg's chest, and eventually they arranged themselves underneath the covers.

Mycroft whispered, almost speaking more to himself than Greg. " _'Live with me, and be my love.'_ "

Greg couldn't help but smile. "Poetic."

Mycroft licked his lips. " _'And we will all the pleasures prove.'_ "

"You do like pleasure."

Mycroft supported himself on an elbow to look at Greg's face. "I'd like all of it."

"You haven't done this before. You can't be certain of that."

"I'm certain of you. Not to be glib, Gregory, but that's all I need to know. I'm certain of you."

The idea that this man, this frighteningly-intelligent man, this aloof and protected man, this jaded and acerbic and terrifyingly-suspicious man loved him that much, _trusted_ him that much, was…

He felt, for one golden moment, as if he were the centre of Mycroft's entire world.

For a long moment they only smiled at each other, then Greg dove into the depths of all that emotion with a kiss, letting it close over his head, submerging, subsuming. They kissed until Greg had relaxed so fully into the partnership that he felt the shape of Mycroft's love support him on all sides.

"Not yet doesn't mean never," he said. "We have time."

"Yes." Mycroft gave him a smile as soft and warm as the bedding around them. "A great deal of time."

"The rest of our lives, I think." It didn't feel as daunting, when the words were spoken aloud. Instead, it felt…true.

Mycroft's smile turned fragile, threaded through with strength like stained glass, and for the millionth time Greg marvelled at how beautiful he was. As Greg watched, he could see the emotion roll through him. He really was making no effort to hide himself away anymore. Greg was bathed in its light. "Please."

Relieved, Greg rolled on top of Mycroft and bit at his mouth, his grin overpowering his attempt at a kiss. His body moulded to Mycroft's as he laid atop him, and he trailed his fingers over Mycroft's chest. Soaked in joy, his heart both buoyant and calm, Greg relaxed. Serene, complete. Floating in that moment, there was nowhere else on earth he would rather be.

Mycroft stroked his back, his breath under Greg's ear settling deep and even. He shifted, and halfway into unconsciousness Greg felt lips on his forehead. Mycroft breathed three words there, and his tongue brushed against Greg's skin in an eloquent caress, silent but plain as day:

_I love you._

Before Greg could do more than feel a smile press outward on his ribs, he fell asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Everything you are, everything you do, the way you speak, the things you say… You press every single one of my buttons. All of them, at once, with both hands. I never stood a chance."_
> 
> Ablution, confession, and an overflowing intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to betas WearItCounts and BakerStMel, I am confident that this chapter runs smoothly and says what I mean it to say. I'm humbled by their generosity.

Greg awoke just enough to be confused about the presence next to him.

"You're still here."

Mycroft turned a page of the Telegraph with barely a hiss of newsprint. "And there you put your finger on precisely why I haven't thrown you over yet."

"Mm?" Greg arched his back into a delicious stretch.

"Your astuteness. Your attention to detail."

The stretch abruptly ended with a huff of laughter. "Oh, fuck off."

"Perhaps we might shower first, mm?"

"What, bed hair and dried come not doing it for you?"

The newspaper dropped in half as Mycroft peered over Greg, from the calf hanging out beneath the rucked-up duvet up to the no doubt _disastrous_ bags under his eyes. He licked his lips and stared at Greg's mouth. "On the contrary." As it happened, the wilderness of Mycroft's hair inspired more affection than attraction, but if Mycroft wanted another go before breakfast there was no way on god's green planet Greg would say no.

He surged up—as much as his sleepy lack of coordination would allow—and tackled Mycroft down to bed with a happy groan. The paper was crushed between them. 

Smiling and unperturbed, Mycroft waited until Greg had settled before reaching up and stroking his fingertips down the side of his face, examining him. Greg took the time to study him back: there was still a pillow crease on his cheek and his skin was puffy with sleep, so he couldn't have been awake that long. Likely, he'd got up just long enough to grab the paper, then come right back to bed to read alongside a sleeping Greg, to be there when he woke.

There was still crust in the corners of his eyes, so he hadn't even washed his face yet.

The vision of Mycroft—sleepy, soft, a mess—was somehow the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen, and he laughed at himself. Love.

Mycroft brushed his fingertips down Greg's nose, along his cheekbone, and across his lips, watching the path they made as if astonished that he was actually touching him. Mycroft blinked and dragged his gaze up, and Greg's heart clenched at the depth of feeling there: he saw adoration, and disbelief, and there was not a little wonder. Mycroft took a visible breath, and it shook. Greg swallowed hard, hoping he'd never become used to that expression. If Mycroft never stopped being astonished, Greg never wanted to stop being amazed by it. He leaned down for a gentle kiss. Mycroft caged his face and kissed back as if Greg were made from spun glass, as if Greg's presence in his bed were precious and painful.

"Join me," Mycroft said against his mouth, trembling.

"Join you?" Greg wasn't awake enough yet to hold the thread of the conversation.

A flash of vulnerability passed over Mycroft's face, but it cleared before he spoke. "In the shower."

Oh. _Oh._

This truly was a weekend for firsts. Greg couldn't have kept the grin from his face if he tried.

* * *

Mycroft's shower was an amazing thing. Covered in deep blue tile, it was large and square and set into the floor, and it sported a showerhead large enough to spray two people at the same time.

Greg had wondered often and for ages what it would be like to share it with him—had been doing so for so long, in fact, that he wasn't quite sure this morning's development wasn't just another dream. He'd always wondered if it had come like that when Mycroft had bought the house, or if he'd designed it himself. He'd wondered if it had been designed in the hope that some day it would be comfortable for two.

He'd dreamed, and he'd wondered, but the reality of it was a revelation. Greg had long missed the slick heat of a lover's skin under the shower spray, and the intimacy of being held as the water fell, but the way Mycroft's focus caressed him as he lathered every square inch made Greg feel _seen_. Seen, but not studied. Taken in, but not taken apart. His throat tight, Greg forced himself to breathe as normally as he could in spite of the thickness of the emotion and humidity hanging in the air.

"You know what I like?" he asked, hushed, as Mycroft trailed his fingers down his spine. He shivered.

"Mm?"

"That I'm one of the only people who know you're a hedonist at heart."

Mycroft huffed. "And what brought this on?"

"Look at this shower."

"It's an efficient shower."

"Efficient my arse. It's huge, your water pressure is ridiculous, you have, what, twelve massage settings on that showerhead, there's a goddamn scrubber on a stick—no one has one of those—and I see three different kinds of shower gel. How do you even decide which one to use?"

"It's called hygiene, Gregory."

"You do a very good job of appearing as if you would refuse pleasure if it were offered, but we both know you adore it."

"Within reason. Everything has its limits."

"Including moderation?"

"Just so."

Mycroft had finished washing his back, and was now simply running his hands all over Greg's body. Greg was _more_ than happy to let him. The air cocooned them in warmth, and the white noise of the shower made it feel as if they'd been tidied away from the rest of the world. Greg would gladly stay there—just him, Mycroft, and a hunger for touch which never seemed to end— as long as Mycroft wanted to.

Blissed out, Greg closed his eyes. "I've missed this so much."

It was an overlong moment before Mycroft moved or spoke. "Yes." He swallowed. "I know you have." And then his hands fell still.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Mycroft spoke in such a low hush that Greg had to strain to hear him. "I could control my reactions to intimacy, so long as there was clothing or sex to mask it. This has neither."

And that was why until this point they hadn't showered together. Mycroft had been too afraid of what he'd betray. And no wonder; the way he was touching Greg left no question how he felt. Over time Greg had lost sight of how much vulnerability it took to share a shower, but to Mycroft, apparently it was one intimacy too much to hide.

He turned in Mycroft's arms. "Nothing so casual," he murmured.

Mycroft expression went a bit foggy, and he kissed Greg with all his heart. Greg moaned, overwhelmed by the emotion in the kiss and the heat of his skin. When the kiss broke, he found himself helpless but to trail his fingertips through Mycroft's chest hair, aching for something tangible to anchor him to reality. A mental image sprung up, and with it came a question Greg had thought and discarded about a billion times since they'd started sleeping together.

"Why were you at Baskerville?"

Mycroft froze, but only for a moment. "Don't you know?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have to ask."

"I thought you'd known."

Greg frowned. "So you aren't going to tell—"

"You, Gregory."

For a moment, Greg thought he'd lost it. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"You were at Baskerville to see _me_?"

"An effort more successful than I ever could have dreamt."

"I don't believe it."

"It's the truth."

"What else did I not know? Did you know I was going to muscle you into having tea?"

"I'm a manipulator, yes, but I'm not pre-cognisant."

"Sometimes I wonder."

"I'd only intended to see you."

"Looking like an estate agent on the pull."

"As you say."

"With that damn chest hair visible at the neck."

"It was my subtle charm offensive."

"Not _very_ subtle."

"I've never been so thankful to have chest hair, then."

Greg laughed and scraped his fingers through it. "This wasn't the initial draw."

"And what was?"

"Let's just say _charm_ wasn't part of the package."

"More like irritation?"

"To say the least."

"How irritated, exactly? I'd like to update my records."

"What do you want me to say? That I consistently wanted to shove my cock down your throat just so you'd shut up?"

There was a weighty silence, and Greg looked up. The expression on Mycroft's face was extraordinary: shock, astonishment, bemusement. He opened his mouth, but only a croaking noise came out.

Greg laughed so hard he choked on a mouthful of water. _I love you._

Mycroft allowed himself to be kissed, then turned Gregory round by the shoulders. There was the click of a bottle, and that was the only warning Greg had before Mycroft began scrubbing shampoo into his hair. A spicy, citrusy scent filled the stall. "There's not a whole lot to wash," Greg said, but after twenty seconds of those fingers he regretted trying to dissuade him. It was more massage than cleansing, and the gentle, steady quality of the touch was liquefying his joints.

As it went on, Mycroft's touch changed character. It turned softer, a caress that strayed down along Greg's body, meandered across his front, and back up. He brushed his fingertips over the purple-green bruise on Greg's shoulder, incurred at some point during their desperate reconnection after the encounter at Garrideb's. Mycroft was again touching him worshipfully, reverently, as if Greg were precious to him.

The pieces all crashed together in Greg's head: Mycroft's visit to Baskerville expressly to see him. Sally's early suggestion that Mycroft wouldn't even be fucking him if he didn't think there was something special about Greg. His usual reticence toward sentiment. His reaction to Greg's love. How he'd seen an attractive man and done something about it, "once". The way in which he'd always touched Greg, even before they were officially dating, as if he couldn't possibly get enough. As if he was going to be forced to let go at any moment. Greg swallowed hard so he could speak past the lump in his throat.

"It's been since the beginning, hasn't it. With you."

He'd thought at first that Mycroft wasn't going to answer, but usually when Mycroft intended to avoid a question he answered with another question, or just changed the subject. Greg waited, scarcely daring to breathe or move. Finally, Mycroft murmured, "Yes."

"You were already in love."

"Profoundly." And he pulled Greg's head back against his shoulder to submerge him.

The pour of water over his head was a decent cover that allowed Greg to boggle in peace. Their entire relationship swirled round like a pack of cards thrown into the air.

Mycroft had been in love with him since the start.

Greg fought to get out from under the spray so he could speak. "So all this time I've been—"

"I knew what I was doing."

"I've been—" Greg got a mouthful of water. He spat a few times.

Mycroft turned him round by the shoulders and took his face in both hands. He kissed him, soft and warm and excruciatingly slowly. Greg's heart thundered. He clutched at Mycroft's body to steady himself, and reeled at the perfection of his hips. Helpless to stay silent, he whimpered. It sounded very loud in the echo chamber of the shower.

"Stop fretting," said Mycroft, almost more breath than word.

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered, and his eyes squeezed closed against the fragile intensity in Mycroft's eyes. He grabbed on tightly and fit his teeth round Mycroft's trapezius muscle, hoping that biting down would act as an anchor. Mycroft's arms tightened. They clung and breathed, and the water fell. Too much love pressed upward into Greg's throat, and each time he exhaled it sounded pained.

Mycroft whined gently with his own storm of emotion.

"I'm sorry." Greg held on tighter and tighter, until he shook. "I'm so sorry." Mycroft huffed out and seemed to be trying to wrap himself round Gregory while standing. "I've been hurting you."

"On the contrary."

"It was so uneven."

"As I understand it," Mycroft whispered into his ear over the sound of the water, "many relationships begin that way. And we seem to be on the same page now, yes?"

"Well." Greg sagged against him. "Definitely."

"Then please don't worry about it." Mycroft let go of Greg and put his face directly into the spray, his brow furrowed.

"I just—"

"Stop worrying, please," Mycroft bubbled.

"I don't think I can."

Mycroft pulled back out of the water and pressed on his face with both hands."I know."

"But I'll try."

"I suppose I'll have to content myself with that."

Unwilling to stop touching him, Greg reached out and pushed the sopping tendrils of his hair back from Mycroft's face. His limbs were weak. "I just wish I'd have—"

" _Gregory._ "

He sighed and looked into Mycroft's eyes, studying him for the truth. "But we're on even footing, now."

Mycroft stared back, then after a breath he raised an eyebrow. "Well, only one of us is clean, so if you're concerned with reciprocity…"

"Oh, turn round," Greg said, mock-sighing. The tiny smile twisting Mycroft's mouth went a long way toward making him feel less like a heel.

Greg washed Mycroft's back, and his thighs, and his perfect, perfect arse. As Greg rinsed soap off Mycroft's upper arm, it occurred to him: _'I fell so hard I bruised something'_ hadn't been literal. Mycroft had been trying to tell Greg how he'd felt. How he'd felt all this time. "But you still allowed yourself to have sex with me? Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Desperately."

"I thought you avoided danger."

"In moderation."

"I wouldn't ever have expected you to—"

"Gregory." Mycroft turned. "Do you think I would have allowed you even to kiss me if I hadn't already decided what I wanted?"

"Me kiss you? That's not what I remember."

"Everything you are, everything you do, the way you speak, the things you say… You press every single one of my buttons. All of them, at once, with both hands. I never stood a chance."

Greg met the sincerity in Mycroft's eyes, and breathed. "So you couldn't have defended against it even if you wanted to."

"I never stood a chance."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. This is a once-in-a-lifetime honour."

_You're it. I'm done. You're it._ Greg replayed Mycroft's words, and was struck with an image in technicolour: doing work in bed and falling asleep in Mycroft's arms, lulled by the rhythm of his breath, then waking up to his face, bleary and soft, mussed with sleep.

He wanted it so badly it hurt.

Mycroft's house wasn't home, no, but neither was his flat yet, and at Mycroft's house was _Mycroft_. Mycroft's partnership, as well as his support, and the relief of coming home to him at the end of every day. Greg tried to breathe through the yearning.

This wasn't his first go-round. And Mycroft didn't do things without having considered all the contingencies. As his mum—and Sharon—had ruthlessly pointed out, they weren't getting any younger. They knew what they wanted. They knew what they needed. When they stopped overthinking, stopped dancing round each other, started communicating, they were _so good_ together. Compatible in sense of purpose. Life goals. Work ethic. Chemistry.

He was finished pretending this relationship was following—had ever followed—the steady progression that relationships were expected to. He was finished being tentative about it. He was finished letting fear drive him. And he was finished fooling himself about what Mycroft meant to him; even when he'd thought they were just casual, they hadn't been. Not even a little bit.

Not at all.

He'd felt softly toward Mycroft for a long goddamn time.

And frankly, having Mycroft nearby to keep tabs on him, having him close so Greg could make sure he was safe and happy, would be one less worry for his heart.

So if Greg wanted it, but was holding back based not on facts but on fear…

Greg could hear Jeremy in his head: _"Don't worry so much about what other people think, dear. What do you want?"_

There could be only one answer.

"I should probably say yes, then." He rinsed the last traces of soap off Mycroft's chest, then continued running his hands all over him.

"Yes?" He seemed confused.

"Are you taking back your offer? You don't want me to move in?"

Mycroft's eyes were wide. "You're saying yes."

"I'm saying _please_."

"You're certain?"

"So long as you know what you're asking."

"Of course I do."

"I just want to make sure, because it's not exactly the way it looks in—"

"Gregory." Mycroft dipped his head and lifted his eyebrows. At that angle, the shower water ran forward, but apparently the magnitude of his disbelief magically kept the water out of his eyes. "Do you really think I hadn't thoroughly considered all facets before I asked?"

"Theory is different than practice, Mycroft."

"Do _you_ think we'll manage well together?"

"If we promise to put some effort into it?" Once again, Greg replayed the mental image of doing work next to Mycroft in bed each night, and waking up in his arms each morning. It was as seductive as any siren's song. "Yes."

"You're positive?"

"Absolutely. I'm certain of you, too."

Mycroft's eyes were brilliant with emotion.

Greg pounced, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him—deep, sloppy, filthy. Joy pressed up into his throat and made it difficult to speak. "Same."

He heard Mycroft take a deep breath and let it out as slowly as possible. "I suggest we go back to bed."

Greg took a deep breath of his own. "We didn't wash your h—"

" _Bed_ , Gregory."

He wasn't going to ask twice.

Limbs trembling, they rinsed, and Greg stepped out of the shower first. He held up a towel for Mycroft to step into. Mycroft stared stupidly, as if he didn't understand what he was meant to do. "Come on," Greg beckoned with one corner of the towel. Hesitant, Mycroft walked into the trap and was bundled up before he could resist. He stood with his back to Greg, and his head hung loose on his neck while Greg rubbed down past his elbows and across both slim forearms.

Before Greg was finished, though, Mycroft spun. He dipped in for a soft kiss, and his breath shattered against Greg's cheek. Greg set the towel aside. His hands stuttered against Mycroft's wet hips, his sides, his back, but there was enough purchase to pull Mycroft into a gentle sway. After the briefest of moments Mycroft went along with it, and his arms came up round Greg. Greg thought the noise he heard deep in Mycroft's throat was the sound of him trying not to hum.

"I owe you a dance," said Greg, his voice delicate as a champagne flute.

"What a coincidence," Mycroft said, "I owe you one."

Greg curled his fingers into the hollow between the planes of Mycroft's back, against his spine, and for a while simply felt the shift of muscle as he moved and breathed.

After a minute, he became aware of the heat between them, and the way wet skin slid against wet skin. Mycroft's belly was as damp as his own, and his thigh as slick, and his cock as loose and vulnerable. The water in the air was a mist which threaded round the dance in cool wisps of moisture, floating and buffeted by the single movement of their bodies together. And now he could hear the song Mycroft was humming.

_Stars shining bright above you._  
_Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'._  
_Birds singing in the sycamore trees._  
_Dream a little dream of me._

The dance was delicate, close, and intimate. Painfully, perfectly intimate. If Greg had yearned for intimacies, this wasn't ten years together and knowing how to cuddle on a sofa. But yet for all that, slow-dancing naked in the steam, on the bathmat outside the shower, might have been one of the most intimate moments of his life. When he sucked in a breath, it shook.

"Yes." Mycroft's breath was a rumble in Greg's ear. "Same." His hands slid down from his shoulderblades to palm Greg's arse, and Greg realised Mycroft's breath was shaking too. Greg tried to hum along for a few notes, but the sheer feeling of the whole thing—the heat, the closeness, Mycroft's wet skin, the dance—was too much, and his voice broke. Greg scraped his fingernails down Mycroft's back from stem to stern and captured the hum with his mouth.

Immediately, Mycroft groaned, but he didn't stop swaying. Left, right, left right, his belly brushed Greg's. He matched the movement, and he felt Mycroft's fingers curl into his flesh.

"Same," Mycroft whispered, brushing him with soft lips and hardening cock. Greg swung his hips as he kissed him, just to feel Mycroft's gentle, steady arousal. Greg's heart sped even faster. He dragged his fingers in a stuttering line up Mycroft's spine, and tilted his head to deepen the contact. Wet and soft, the vulnerability of Mycroft's belly and the increasing rigidity against Greg's thigh. Greg's blood raced southward with the acknowledgement of it, an attempt to match him, and he moaned at the warm, familiar pulse of tissues filling.

"Back to bed," he said. His voice sounded foreign and rough.

"Yes," Mycroft said, and without losing contact he opened the door and steered Greg backward out of the bathroom.

The weight of Mycroft's body pressing him into the mattress was so incredibly delicious that Greg moaned simply at the feel of it. He was still slick and shower-hot, and he smelled divine. His hair dripped onto Greg's brow. Greg lifted his head and smeared the water into his temple.

Mycroft shifted, and his cock slid in the cradle of Greg's hip. He did it again, and again, and Greg grabbed two hands full of his arse to help him along. Mycroft's forehead fell against Greg's shoulder, and his breath broke against his collarbone like a trapped, desperate thing. Greg twisted his hips in tiny circles against Mycroft's thigh. The friction made his toes curl, and he laughed, bubbling over with delight.

"Yesss…" He tried for a kiss, but his smile was so broad he could only nip at Mycroft's mouth instead. He dug both hands into his flesh, and clutched him tight. "You'll be here to make me dinner when I come home?"

Mycroft answered with a huff of laughter. "More often than not, you'll be home before me."

"Facts. Don't give me facts. I'm conjuring a picture here." Greg bit Mycroft's lower lip. "I'll come home. You'll be doing work with one hand and stirring a pot of sauce with the other, barefoot. Trousers, shirt, braces. Hair mussed. I'll strip off down to my boxers because the kitchen is too warm for clothes—"

"Then why am I still wearing—"

Greg reached down and pulled Mycroft's cock, and he gasped. "Shh." He chuckled. Mycroft's jaw went slack with pleasure. "We'll eat our supper in the dining room like civilised people, and then we'll move on to the bedroom, where I'll tear your clothes off and we can shag like rabbits until we fall asleep in each other's arms. And then we can do it all again the next day."

"So I'm only wearing clothes so you have something to tear off?"

"Yes."

"And you don't think this scenario is at all contrived?"

"I think it's delusional."

Mycroft laughed. Greg couldn't help staring at the way his nose crinkled, and the sparkle in his eye; they caused a powerful surge of affection to rise up and steal his breath. He pressed his forehead to Mycroft's temple, then forced himself to inhale slowly. When he exhaled, his throat was tight. "I am so in love with you."

He heard Mycroft take a deep, careful breath. "You know what scenario is more likely?"

"Mm?"

Mycroft reached down and slowly, steadily, with those beautiful hands of his, began stroking Greg's cock. Greg moaned and sank into the sensation. He'd started off aroused, and that manner of touch was always guaranteed to push him over the edge. Without fail. "We'll both be home late from work. I'll bring food from a restaurant we both enjoy, and you'll go into the kitchen to get some plates, but before you even get there I'll press you back against the worktop. I'll trap you with my body, and I'll whisper into your ear all the dirty, filthy thoughts I'd had during the day. You'll get hard to the feel of my voice in your ear and my hips pushed against yours. Won't you."

Greg's eyes fluttered back. "You know I will."

"I'd pull your cock, slow and long, just like this, all the while telling you how I used to have to masturbate in my office just to get through the day, because thinking of you drove me mad. I would remember something you'd said while we were having sex, and I would remember how heavy your breath was or how much you were shaking, how much you seem to want me, and that would start me down the mental path so all I could think about was your hands and mouth on my body. Before long I would be imagining your tongue in my tail, all hot and wet and sensitive, and I would have to come. Or I would imagine your breath on the back of my neck, and your semen wet between my thighs, and I would have to come. I would have to come, because otherwise I couldn't master my body's responses, and even the tightest of shorts couldn't hide my arousal. Like this. You're incredibly aroused, aren't you, Gregory?"

Greg reeled. "Oh jesus christ."

"I can tell when I'm about to make you come. You get harder. So hard. And those magnificent bollocks of yours get tight. Yes, you're getting there, aren't you…" He'd been right; now that Mycroft was learning to talk dirty, it was putting Greg right onto the fast track. If he came so hard he'd feel it into the next week, he wouldn't be surprised. "I love to have them in my mouth when you come. Tight. Ready. I can feel it happening. It makes me very, very aroused."

The world resolved into one singular point of pleasure. And then Mycroft's grip changed, becoming hard and slow and steady.

"I can tell when you're about to come," he said, "and I can drag it out. You, on the edge, ready to come, and me keeping you just on that edge for such a very long time. You're there, aren't you. Ready to come."

"Oh, jesus christ, Mycroft." He was blisteringly turned on.

"Do you want me to let you come now?"

"Please."

"You want me to let you come?"

"Please let me come."

"Say it again."

"Please."

"Do you need to come?"

"Yes. Oh god, please yes."

"Are you going to come all over me?"

"Oh fff—"

"Are your bollocks very tight, and your cock so, so hard in my hand?"

Greg could only make a strangled noise.

Mycroft pressed his mouth to Greg's ear, so the movement of his lips and the vibration of his voice sent Greg brimming. "It's time to come, Gregory."

Greg's arousal flared and he spilled over the edge, filling the room with the sound of his moan. He was squeezed dry, spasm after spasm wringing pleasure from his bones. Mycroft's teeth closed on his shoulder and Greg cried out, scraping up his back with every failing attempt to clutch more securely.

His climax echoed forward and backward, caught in a timeless cycle, blissful and unending. 

At last the orgasm settled into a haze of satisfaction, and he groaned bitterly. Mycroft cradled his cock in his hand with a steady and constant pressure, which held him as he slowly, bit by bit, coalesced into one piece again.

The light that illuminated Mycroft’s eye as he licked semen off his hand brightened Greg's entire world. He yanked Mycroft down into a desperate kiss.

"Better?" Mycroft said, smug.

"I love you so goddamn much."

There was a breath. Mycroft stared back at him. He dipped in for a slow kiss, thorough and with tremendous intent, and the kiss went on and on while Greg felt love roll off Mycroft in waves.

Mycroft whimpered into the kiss, and it shook apart. Greg shifted and ground his thigh up between Mycroft's legs, finding him hard and damp and certainly ready for an orgasm of his own.

"I think you're ready to come now."

His _yes_ came in the form of Mycroft rutting down mindlessly against him, and the rasp in his breath as conscious thought seemed to fade away and his body took over from his brain. "Come on, love," Greg murmured. "I want to see it. I want to watch you come."

Greg revelled in the greedy clutch of his hands as Mycroft's control went unhinged. He thrust down against Greg's thigh, becoming an animal seeking friction, a transformation so sexy Greg wished he could come along with him.

He shoved his leg harder against Mycroft, pressing up while Mycroft pressed down. "Yeah, love. Yeah. Come on. Come all over me. Show it to me."

Mycroft made a grating noise and shoved up onto his knees. The blast of cool air between them was briefly startling. He began jacking himself furiously, his breath puffing, his chest heaving. The click of his throat was loud in the room, and then he jerked and came all over Greg's stomach and chest, clutching his cock and twitching with every spasm. His eyes were closed as he floated, lost in pleasure. The tiny movements in Mycroft's expression made Greg's throat tight. Jaw slack, without opening his eyes, Mycroft reached down and fumbled for Greg's hand. Greg watched the trailing end of Mycroft's orgasm while holding on tightly, imagining he was bringing Mycroft back to earth with the strength of his grip.

Though Mycroft had finished, after a minute his eyes still were closed, and his breath was still ragged.

"Hey," Greg tried to say, but it came out hoarse. Ineffective. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, love." At last, Mycroft's eyes opened. He looked too full. Overwhelmed. Greg stroked his thigh, just once. "Okay?"

Gingerly, Mycroft lay back down along Greg's side, and when Greg smoothed his hair back from his face and kissed his forehead, his brow furrowed. "So much. I feel so many things for you."

Greg's stomach flipped. "Good things, I hope."

Mycroft met his gaze. He looked shattered. "You're really saying yes."

"I told you. I'm saying _please_."

With an unsuppressed whine, Mycroft kissed him. His mouth was dry and cool, and though it was the usual dance of lips and breath, it was no less precious for all its familiarity. In fact, the thick emotion in the air made every single movement seem like performing a sacred ritual, something enacted to bind them together.

When the kiss ended, Greg felt as if the world had subtly shifted.

_For the rest of our lives._

"We'll need to shower again," Mycroft said, nestling into the crook of Greg's neck, laying his weight into all the cracks and crevices, covering him. His voice was just as rough as Greg's felt.

"In a few minutes."

"Mmm." All the tension left Mycroft's body.

Just once, Greg dragged his fingertips along Mycroft's spine, but even that was too much effort. He braided their limbs together and let the peace support him like a rising tide. "Maybe—" he started, then swallowed. "Maybe in a few minutes."

He stopped fighting it, and let love wash him away.

* * *

After a while, hunger and inaction began to nip at them both. They showered briefly then stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, and Mycroft bustled around pulling together ingredients for a decent-sized breakfast while refusing Greg's help over and over again. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, and the tails of his dressing gown flapped behind him. Suddenly Greg was overwhelmed with a memory: him and Mycroft and Sharon, the morning after the film. Domesticity and warmth. Love. Family. Greg held the steaming cup to his face and tried not to become overwhelmed with all the possibilities.

"You should phone her," Mycroft said.

"Mm?" Greg stared into the middle distance over the rim of his mug.

"Sharon." Mycroft set two plates onto the worktop. "It's well past ten. Phone her."

The meaning of Mycroft's words ticked down into recognition, and Greg's focus snapped to his back to watch him elegantly snag a few eggs from the fridge. "How?"

"The coffee. It's morning. I'm making you breakfast. That expression on your face. You watched me dispose of the sausage wrapper, then looked out the window to see where my bins are. You patted your pocket for your mobile. Then you sighed." He gestured with an egg. "The last time I did this for you Sharon was with us, and you're bound to have associations. I'm certain you've also thought about telling her how the gala went, because not only do you think she'd appreciate hearing what you wore—I agree, by the way—you think she'd also like hearing about the general spectacle." Mycroft huffed a tiny laugh and spun to begin slicing tomato. "You should phone her."

Stunned, Greg stared at his back, then began laughing. He made Mycroft abandon his preparations so he could turn him round and take him by the face and pull him into a slow, luxurious kiss. His heart pounded. After a moment Mycroft sighed and melted into the embrace. Gradually the kiss broke, gentling to a bare brush of lips and the intimacy of shared breath. "You never do that with me." His brother did. Mycroft didn't.

Mycroft's smile was either dazed, sleepy, or both. "It's impolite. I tend to refrain."

"But you figured I wouldn't mind."

"I didn't think you would ask because it could be considered rude." Mycroft kissed him again: once, gentle. "But this is Sharon. I don't mind in the least."

_You think it's sexy,_ pressed at the back of Greg's teeth, but instead he just kissed him again. _I love you._

"I'm never going to finish our breakfasts if you keep kissing me," Mycroft murmured into a break in the action.

"Are you complaining?"

"Mmm. Not at all." A kiss. "But the sausages may burn."

"Let us hope that's not a euphemism."

Mycroft stifled an unfamiliar snort of a laugh. "Go phone your daughter."

Floating skyward on a thermal of joy and adoration, Greg wandered into the dining room and pulled out his mobile.

"Dad." Sharon sounded lazy, but not asleep. "What's up?"

"Good morning to you, too."

"Good—" She coughed. "Good morning."

"You ill?"

"Nah, just waking up. Still. It was a long night."

"What did you do?"

"Oh, just the usual. Drinks and dinner with friends, then we came back here and hung out until…I dunno. A time."

"Fun?"

"Absolutely. You? Having any fun?"

"Strange you should ask." He listened to the sizzling coming from the kitchen. "Mycroft and I went to a holiday gala last night. A _gala_. Black tie." She made a meeping noise. "Yes, it was as posh as it sounds, and yes, we looked fantastic."

"Are there photos?"

He blinked. Donovan had mentioned it, and still he'd forgotten. "Sorry."

"DAD. Oh my god, Dad, _seriously_? What are you doing to me?!"

Greg scrubbed his face with his free hand. "I think it's too early to be shouted at like this."

"Why, what time did _you_ two get up?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, and copied her phrasing. " _A time._ "

She giggled. "It was a good night, though?"

"Perfect."

"And both of you looked handsome, I expect."

"Well, I can't speak for myself, but Mycroft certainly did."

"Hard for him not to."

He frowned. "Wait, what?"

"So where was the gala?"

Greg blinked and tried very hard to ignore her implication. He cleared his throat. "Nowhere you'd have heard of, I don't think. But it was huge and…elegant, I guess. Chandeliers and holiday decor. Tasteful, but…you know."

"The kind of tasteful that you know is ridiculously expensive?"

"Something like that."

"I suppose you forgot to take photos of that, too."

"It wasn't really the sort of place you take— Wait. You're messing with me now, aren't you."

"Yyyup."

"You're horrid."

"Yyyup."

"Go away."

"You phoned _me_ , sir. Just to brag, too, I think."

"Pretty much."

"So? Brag more. I don't suppose last night involved dancing."

Greg nearly choked on his coffee. "We didn't think people would have appreciated it."

"Why not? It's 2015."

"And we're old." Which was the most succinct answer to _that_ he could come up with. He didn't really want to get into the complication of PDA in front of heads of state. Or being so overt about their affection.

"That you are, my friend."

"Oi!"

Sharon giggled at him. "I'm glad it was perfect. You deserve some perfect."

_Oh, here we go._ "Are you going to be patronising again?"

"It's not patronising. It's the truth. You guys are so cute I could puke, and—"

"I'm begging you. Stop."

"—And let's be honest, you've had a pretty shit time of it recently. You deserve to have someone to love."

"Who said anything about that?" His heart started pounding.

"Come on. I told you in the car: it's obvious."

"It is not."

"Dad." She sighed. "It really is."

"Perhaps we should bring you for an eye exam before you leave for the States."

"Dad."

"What?"

"Be serious for a moment."

"Okay. But just for a moment."

She giggled, but then waited a breath while the tension between them drew out like a fine wire. Greg felt the levity drop. Finally, she said, "Do you love him?"

Greg leaned backward a foot to glance into the kitchen. Mycroft was just swinging a pan in a graceful arc to plate their breakfasts. Greg swallowed. "Very much."

There was a heavy silence, and when Sharon spoke there was an excess of glee in her voice. It almost hurt to hear it. "Have you told him?"

"That’s none of your business."

"Does that mean no?"

"Sharon…"

"Never mind." Her smugness came through loud and clear even over the sound of running water, which hissed like white noise on the line. Greg pinched between his eyes. The weight of Mycroft’s listening from the other room was palpable. "Even if you haven’t yet, you will soon. I know it. I can tell." She clattered some dishes.

"I’m not talking to you while you’re doing the washing up."

"You won’t be able to hold it in. You’ll be, like, both doing paperwork or whatever and it’ll all be too much and you’ll explode with ‘Oh my god Myc the way you hold the pen is the best way of holding a pen and I love you.’"

He rolled his eyes. “His name is _Mycroft_ ,” he said just as Mycroft came through with their breakfasts, and his brow crinkled in confusion at Greg's half of the conversation. Greg shook his head. He could fill him in on the goods later.

He'd really have to tell her everything later—not only that he'd said the words, but that they were moving in together. But not while the object of those words was listening. And not while he still hadn't figured out the best wording. He procrastinated, even while knowing he was procrastinating. He was too sleepy to do anything else.

"Some day one of you is going to have to tell me how he got that name. Was it passed from father to son from the man who made mattresses for King Arthur or something?"

"Oh my god. Sharon…"

"Or maybe it was—"

"Sorry, babe. Breakfast is ready. I've got to go."

"You made breakfast?"

"Actually, _Mycroft_ made breakfast."

She made another dolphin-calling noise. "Go have a nice morning."

"We plan to."

"And a nice day."

"Don't know. We haven't made plans yet. Mycroft might need to work." Mycroft shook his head. "Mycroft doesn't need to work." Butterflies erupted in Greg's stomach. They could spend the entire day together, just like this? His skin felt entirely composed of light.

"Tell him hello for me."

Greg pulled the mouthpiece away from his face. "Sharon says hello."

"Please give her my regards." Mycroft said as he set out utensils and napkins.

Stifling a smile, Greg told Sharon, "He gives you his regards."

Sharon burst out laughing. "Amazing. Amazing. I love you. Go have a nice day with lots of smooches."

"And with that horrible phrase," Greg said, "I'm gone."

"Love you, Dad."

"Love you too, Sweetheart."

"Bye."

Greg prodded at his mobile and shoved it into his pocket. "She was making fun of your name."

"Please tell her next time that I've heard it all before, and she's about forty years too late for it to bother me."

With a grimace, Greg sat. "That bad?"

"Not entirely. But the torment was worth it, if that path brought me here today."

"He said, in a rare bout of optimism."

"Sit down and eat before it gets cold."

"Wait. Where are _you_ going?"

Mycroft blinked at him and pointed to the kitchen. "There's fresh coffee. You didn't think I was going to make you drink the cold batch."

"We're not philistines."

"Many things, but philistines we are not." Mycroft's smirk was barely noticeable before he disappeared into the kitchen and came back moments later with two mugs. He set one down in front of Greg. "Bon appetít," he said.

Before he sat, Greg grabbed his elbow and reeled him in. "Kiss me."

"Gladly." Mycroft tried to pull away after the first peck, but Greg held him there and drew it out until his own head was spinning. "What was that for?"

"Did I need a reason?"

"I hope not." Mycroft sat and raised his coffee mug. "A toast."

"With coffee?"

" _A toast._ "

"Right, a toast." Greg laid down his fork and grabbed his mug. "What are we toasting?"

Mycroft swallowed. He locked Greg's gaze and held the mug toward him. "À nous."

Greg's heart flipped. He remembered a dinner not too long ago, with wine and chicken marsala and shifting sand under their feet. "To us," he said. He lifted his mug, and smiled.

* * *

After supper that night, Mycroft pulled some of his paperwork onto the bed to work while Greg read. He wadded a pillow underneath his head so he could look periodically over the edge of the book and watch Mycroft frown through his reading glasses at whatever the hell he was looking at.

"Russia stole a package of our favourite biscuits?" Greg asked, poised in the act of turning the page.

"Why do you say that?" Mycroft didn't look up from his laptop.

"Because you look perturbed. I figure if it was something _really_ bad, you wouldn't look bothered at all. You'd be stony-faced and…hard."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked, but he didn't take his eyes away from comparing a sheet of paper to the screen. As usual, Greg tried not to focus on whatever it said. It wasn't likely to be anything he wasn't allowed to see, this being Mycroft, but _being_ Mycroft, it had a high likelihood of being something Greg didn't _want_ to see. Plausible deniability wasn't just a need but a lifestyle choice.

"Is this where I'm meant to play along about biscuits and code phrases?"

"Only if you want to be fun."

"Why on earth would I want that?"

Greg snorted and rearranged himself so he could snuggle his back against Mycroft's legs. "I can't think of a reason." He'd just settled down on his side to get back to reading when Mycroft carded his fingers through Greg's hair. The book collapsed toward Greg's face slowly, inch by inch, the longer it went on, until it began to smash his glasses.

"How's your book?" Mycroft asked.

"Fine." Greg tried to summon the strength to lift it back up and continue reading, but the will eluded him. Mycroft's _hands._

"It's about an extraterrestrial biological agent?"

"No, that's _The Andromeda Strain._ This is just _The Strain_." Greg pushed back against him. "Still about blood, though."

"Oh?"

Greg tossed the book to the side and threw his glasses onto the bedside table. He turned over to lift up the edge of Mycroft's dressing gown, exposing his hip, and to suck a kiss into it. "Vampires," he said, enjoying the way his lips caught on the hair on Mycroft's thigh. "They feed with their tongues."

"Mm?"

"Not in a sexy way, unfortunately."

"Ah."

"More in a proboscis sort of way." Greg started scraping his teeth down the outside of Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft's attention to his work was wavering the longer Greg spent with his mouth on his leg, which was gratifying. The space between keyboard clicks increased.

"Their jaws can hinge like snakes..." Greg said.

At last, Mycroft let the packet of papers fall to the bed and he let out a breath. "Not sexual, you said."

"Not in the slightest," said Greg, and he crawled over Mycroft's shin to start nipping up the inside of his calf. He let his hand stray under the hem of Mycroft's dressing gown to toy with his soft, not-yet-interested cock.

"And yet..."

"And yet?"

"Here you are."

"And yet."

"I shudder to think how little work would get done if they'd been vampires in a 'sexy way'."

"I don't think you'd mind the sort of shuddering you'd be doing."

"Gregory..."

Greg pushed up onto his knees to frown down at him. "If you really want me to stop, I'll stop."

"The trouble is, I _don't_ want you to stop."

"But you still have work to do."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I apologise."

After a breath of his own, Greg smiled ruefully at him and crawled back into his spot next to Mycroft's hip. "This separation is only temporary."

"Oh, I'm aware."

"When you're finished working, I fully intend to have my way with you."

"Do you intend to be successful?"

Greg had been bunching the pillow up underneath his head again, but with that he paused. He took in the sight of Mycroft sitting up in bed: reading glasses, dressing gown baring a sliver of furry chest, his hair still somewhat awry from a heavy snog in the sitting room after dinner. Greg was so in love it made his stomach tight. "I have certain expectations."

Mycroft dragged his gaze away from his work for long enough to blink at Greg, then he gave him a quiet smile. He leaned over to lay a kiss on Greg's shoulder, barred from more by the laptop on his thighs and the pile of papers propped against his stomach. "Thank you," he said. His voice was rough.

"For?"

"This," said Mycroft.

Greg curled against his side and picked up his book and his own glasses. "My pleasure," he said, and found his spot again. Mycroft trailed his fingers along Greg's upper arm and got back to work.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Why do people think it's necessary to tell me how to conduct my affairs?"_
> 
> _"Presumably they assume you're too stupid to figure it out for yourself."_
> 
> Some endings are also beginnings.  
> But much, _much_ happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my betas BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and WearItCounts, I owe more thanks than I have words to express them. This story is so much better for their support, their advice, and their perspectives. I couldn't have done it without them.

To his surprise, when Greg arrived at Hopkins's crime scene the next morning, Mycroft was there. 

He was talking with Sherlock, though neither of them had seen Greg yet. Hopkins was gathered with Sergeant Kelly in the corner, both talking animatedly with their favourite crime scene manager Catherine, and they looked to be ironing something out—something important—so Greg bypassed them and headed straight for the Headache Brothers.

"Two children," Mycroft was saying. "One very small infant and one school-age daughter. Single father. He's ex-navy. Deals with computers on a regular basis."

"Works at The Guardian," Greg heard Sherlock add to Mycroft's deductions. "Took a pay cut within the last year."

"Six months, Sherlock. Look at his coat."

"Ah. And he's a part-time bartender."

"Prefers tequila to rum."

"Took a mini cab last night."

Greg coughed. "I'd say there's no way you two could know all that, but I wouldn't waste my breath."

They spun. Greg was more pleased than he probably should have been that he'd managed to startle them both. "Evidence suggests you just did," Mycroft said. The pleasure on his face warmed Greg significantly against the winter chill.

"Touché." Greg licked his lips and almost didn't grin. One slipped through the cracks anyway. "What brings you here?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I might have a word."

He tilted his head out toward the veranda, and Greg followed him. He waited to speak until they were safely separated from the rest of the group by the wide, glass french doors. "So what's up? Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but…" The words withered as Mycroft reached out and slipped his fingers under the lapel of Greg's new coat, then slid his hand down, letting his fingers skate over the ridiculously-soft wool. His chest expanded slowly.

His gaze met Greg's, and the world melted away.

They existed simply in the space, each knowing the other was immersed in emotion. There was sublime comfort in the knowledge that while Greg was looking at Mycroft, loving him, Mycroft was looking at him and loving him right back. Existing together, suspended in that moment while everything else went on without them, the trust between them was so massive it had weight.

'I'm certain of you' didn't only mean 'I trust that we are going to be good together'. It meant 'I trust you unreservedly'.

It stood in stark contrast to his past relationship.

It was a revelation.

Greg felt a divine sense of freedom fill his lungs, like taking a breath of fresh air after being stifled for years. He had support in his life, and love, and trust. Having finally reached this point, the only thing Greg regretted was having taken this long to get here. He'd learned his lesson; his relationship with Mycroft was the one place where he never again had to be afraid. Ever.

As he looked into Mycroft's eyes, he beamed joy.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and the moment scattered and blew away. He played with his umbrella, swaying it this way and that, doing a fairly good job of seeming unruffled. "There is a file I was reading last night. It's not particularly high security, but it's high _priority_ , and I'm afraid it must have slid down the side of the bed when we became…distracted." 'Distracted' likely meant when Greg had taken advantage of a break in Mycroft's concentration to instigate an intimate concert during which he sang Mycroft's praises, loudly, to the ceiling and the four corners of the room. Mycroft pushed out his lips. "I wonder if it would be possible for you to get away early to let me in? Or barring that, might I borrow a set of keys? I understand it's an imposition, but I wouldn't ask if it weren't—"

"An _imposition_?"

Mycroft looked, miracle of miracles, bashful. "It's possible."

"What, when you could just break in?"

His eyes went very wide and very innocent. "Surely that's home invasion."

Greg tried not to giggle. Love expanded, buoyant and warm in his chest. "Here." He pulled his keys out of his pocket and started unwinding one of them. "I've been holding on to this since you gave me a code to your place." He held out the extra key to his flat.

Mycroft blinked rather stupidly at it. "Oh."

"It's only temporary," Greg said, and shoved it again at him. "You won't need it for very long."

After a breath of flaring emotion, during which Mycroft's expression changed so little if Greg didn't know him he wouldn't have recognised it for what it was, Mycroft took the key. He let his fingers brush across Greg's wrist. "Thank you."

"Of course." Their gazes caught, and Greg's heart gave a particularly strong thump at the softness in Mycroft's eyes. He doubted if Mycroft's back hadn't been to the room it would have been there at all. Greg set his jaw to keep his expression as neutral as possible. He was filled with so much love and joy that he could scarcely breathe, and he was afraid what his face was doing. "I'll next see you…when?"

"Not soon enough, I fear. End of the week, I expect."

"Text me. We have plans to work out."

"Oh…" Mycroft gathered himself together in preparation to leave. "…we certainly do." He inclined his head and swaggered away, a man cool and collected and certainly not affected by the same swirl of adoration currently filling Greg's chest.

Greg didn't believe it for a hot second.

He took a moment out on the veranda to collect himself, then went back inside.

"Did he give you that coat?" Sherlock said, fiddling with his magnifying glass.

Greg was in such an ebullient mood, he decided to indulge him. "As a matter of fact, he did."

Sherlock huffed. " _Sentiment_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, his scowl turned disgusted. "You two are _besotted_."

"Are we." Greg said.

"The way you look at each other. Gooey. Pink icing. Hearts in your eyes. Like you want to shag each other until rainbows come out."

Greg blinked. "Are you high right now?"

"Angels singing in a choir."

"Sherlock."

"If you two haven't admitted you're in love, you're bigger idiots than I thought."

"Why do people think it's necessary to tell me how to conduct my affairs?"

"Presumably they assume you're too stupid to figure it out for yourself."

"What the hell do _you_ know about love, anyhow?"

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. It took him a moment, but Greg finally realised what he was trying to say. He'd long suspected it, but confirmation made his brain hurt. He tried very hard not to look at John. "…You know what, don't answer that."

"Wise." Sherlock walked toward the door.

"Your insults are far too late, anyhow. You're slipping."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We're moving in together, starting next week."

Sherlock frowned again, then frowned harder. He appeared to be processing this, which, taking into account his usual processing speed, meant this was quite a packet of information to deal with. Finally, he jerked a nod and turned. "Good."

It was probably the most overt acceptance they were ever going to get.

Greg looked round at the bustling crime scene, at Sergeant Kelly talking to the crime scene manager, at Hopkins leaving the two of them and coming over for a briefing. He looked at the vic. He looked at Sherlock conferring with John. On his coat's collar, he could still smell Mycroft's cologne from that morning.

First murder case as a DCI, and so far it didn't seem that bad. With any luck, it would stay that way. He bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling like a loon. After all, they were there to investigate a death; it wouldn't do to look too pleased with his life.

"So," he said to the room at large, shoving both hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "What have you got?"


End file.
